«:E  LIGHT 

r       r~i    -  f   i   V-* 
*     X   i  t! 


THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 


Sildnt/^Vprnan  stood,  pointing  at  him  with  her  finger 


THE  LIGHT 
IN  THE  CLEARING 

A  Tale  of  the  North  Country 
in  the  Time  of  Silas  Wright 

By 

IRVING  BACHELLER 

AUTHOR  or 

Eben  Holden,  D'ri  and  I,  Darrel  of  the  Blessed  hies, 
Keeping  Up  With  Lizzie,  etc.,  etc. 


ILLUSTRATES  BY 

ARTHUR  I.  KELLER 


The  Spirit  of  Man  is  the  Candle  of  the  Lord 

— PROVERBS   XX   27 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  NINETEEN-SEVENTEEN 
IRVING  BACHELLER 


OF 

BRAUNWORTM    Ik    CO. 

BOOK    MANUFACTURER* 

BROOKLYN.     N.     r. 


To  MY  FRIEND 
THOMAS  R.  PROCTOR,  OF  UTICA 

LOVER  OF  THE  TRUE  IDEALS  OF  DEMOCRACY 

tfHOSE  LIFE  HAS  BEEN  A  SHINING  EXAMPLE  TO  ALL  MEN  O*    WEALTH 

HONORED  GENTLEMAN  AND  PHILANTHROPIST 

AT  THE  GATE  OF  THE  LAND  OF 

WHICH  I  HAVE  WRITTEN 

I  DEDICATE  THESE  CHRONICLES  OF  THAT  LAND 
AND  OF  ITS  GREAT  HERO 


442536 


FOREWORD 

From  the  memoirs  of  one  who  knew 
Governor  Wright  and  lived  through 
many  of  the  adventures  herein  de 
scribed  and  whose  life  ended  full  of 
honors  early  in  the  present  century.  It 
is  understood  that  he  chose  the  name 
Barton  to  signalise  his  affection  for  a 
friend  well  known  in  the  land  of  which 
he  was  writing. 

AUTHOR. 


PREFACE 

The  Light  in  the  Clearing  shone  upon  many 
things  and  mostly  upon  those  which,  above  all 
others,  have  impassioned  and  perpetuated  the  Spirit 
of  America  and  which,  just  now,  seem  to  me  to  be 
worthy  of  attention.  I  believe  that  spirit  to  be  the 
very  candle  of  the  Lord  which,  in  this  dark  and 
windy  night  of  time,  has  flickered  so  that  the  souls 
of  the  faithful  have  been  afraid.  But  let  us  be  of 
good  cheer.  It  is  shining  brighter  as  I  write  and, 
under  God,  I  believe  it  shall,  by  and  by,  be  seen  and 
loved  of  all  men. 

One  self-contained,  Homeric  figure,  of  the  re 
mote  country-side  in  which  I  was  born,  had  the  true 
Spirit  of  Democracy  and  shed  its  light  abroad  in  the 
Senate  of  the  United  States  and  the  Capitol  at  Al 
bany.  He  carried  the  candle  of  the  Lord.  It  led 
him  to  a  height  of  self-forget  fulness  achieved  by 
only  two  others — Washington  and  Lincoln.  Yet  I 
have  been  surprised  by  the  profound  and  general 
ignorance  of  this  generation  regarding  the  career  of 
Silas  Wright,  of  whom  Whittier  wrote  these  lines : 

"Man  of  the  millions  thou  art  lost  too  soon  I 
Portents  at  which  the  bravest  stand  aghast 
The  birth  throes  of  a  future  strange  and  vast 


PREFACE 

Alarm  the  land.    Yet  thou  so  wise  and  strong 
Suddenly  summoned  to  the  burial  bed, 
Lapped  in  its  slumbers  deep  and  ever  long, 
Hear'st  not  the  tumult  surging  over  head. 
"Who  now  shall  rally  Freedom's  scattering  host? 
Who  wear  the  mantle  of  the  leader  lost?" 

The  distinguished  Senator  who  served  at  his  side 
for  many  years,  Thomas  H.  Benton  of  Missouri, 
has  this  to  say  of  Silas  Wright  in  his  Thirty  Years' 
View: 

"He  refused  cabinet  appointments  under  his  fast 
friend  Van  Buren  and  under  Polk,  whom  he  may  be 
said  to  have  elected.  He  refused  a  seat  on  the  bench 
of  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  United  States;  he  re 
jected  instantly  the  nomination  of  1844  for  Vice- 
President;  he  refused  to  be  put  in  nomination  for 
the  Presidency.  He  spent  that  time  in  declining  of 
fice  which  others  did  in  winning  it.  The  offices  he 
did  accept,  it  might  well  be  said,  were  thrust  upon 
him.  He  was  born  great  and  above  office  and  un 
willingly  descended  to  it." 

So  much  by  way  of  preparing  the  reader  to  meet 
the  great  commoner  in  these  pages.  One  thing  more 
is  necessary  to  a  proper  understanding  of  the  final 
scenes  in  the  book — a  part  of  his  letter  written  to 
Judge  Fine  just  before  the  Baltimore  convention  of 
1844,  to  wit: 

"I  do  not  feel  at  liberty  to  omit  any  act  which 
may  protect  me  from  being  made  the  instrument, 


PREFACE 

however  honestly  and  innocently,  of  further  distrac 
tions. 

"Within  a  few  days  several  too  partial  friends 
have  suggested  to  me  the  idea  that  by  possibility,  in 
case  the  opposition  to  the  nomination  of  Mr.  Van 
Buren  should  be  found  irreconcilable,  a  compromise 
might  be  made  by  dropping  him  and  using  my  name. 
I  need  not  say  to  you  that  a  consent  on  my  part  to 
any  such  proceeding  would  justly  forfeit  my  stand 
ing  with  the  democracy  of  our  state  and  cause  my 
faith  and  fidelity  to  my  party  to  be  suspected  every 
where.  ...  To  consent  to  the  use  of  my  name 
as  a  candidate  under  any  circumstances,  would  be  in 
my  view  to  invite  you  to  compromise  the  expressed 
wishes  and  instructions  of  your  constituents  for  my 
personal  advancement.  I  can  never  consent  to  place 
myself  in  a  position  where  the  suspicion  of  acting 
from  such  a  motive  can  justly  attach  to  me.  .  .  . 

"If  it  were  proper  I  could  tell  you  with  the  most 
perfect  truth  that  I  have  never  been  vain  enough  to 
dream  of  the  office  of  President  in  connection  with 
my  own  name,  and  were  not  Mr.  Van  Buren  the 
candidate  of  our  State,  I  should  find  just  as  little 
difficulty  as  I  now  do,  in  telling  you  that  I  am  not 
and  can  not  under  any  circumstances  be  a  candidate 
before  your  convention  for  that  office." 

According  to  his  best  biographer,  Jabez  Ham- 


PREFACE 

mond,  Mr.  Wright  still  adhered  to  this  high  ground 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  Mr.  Van  Buren  withdrew 
and  requested  his  faithful  band  to  vote  for  the  Sen 
ator. 

There  were  those  who  accused  Mr.  Wright  of  be 
ing  a  spoilsman,  the  only  warrant  for  which  claim 
would  seem  to  be  his  remark  in  a  letter:  "When 
our  enemies  accuse  us  of  feeding  our  friends  instead 
of  them  never  let  them  lie  in  telling  the  story." 

He  was,  in  fact,  a  human  being,  through  and 
through,  but  so  upright  that  they  used  to  say  of  him 
that  he  was  "as  honest  as  any  man  under  heaven 
or  in  it." 

For  my  knowledge  of  the  color  and  spirit  of  the 
time  I  am  indebted  to  a  long  course  of  reading  in 
its  books,  newspapers  and  periodicals,  notably  The 
North  American  Review,  The  United  States  Maga 
zine  and  Democratic  Review,  The  New  York  Mirror, 
The  Knickerbocker,  The  St.  Lawrence  Republican, 
Benton's  Thirty  Years'  View,  Bancroft's  Life  of 
Martin  Van  Buren,  histories  of  Wright  and  his  time 
by  Hammond  and  Jenkins,  and  to  many  manuscript 
letters  of  the  distinguished  commoner  in  the. New 
York  Public  Library  and  in  the  possession  of  Mr. 
Samuel  Wright  of  Weybridge,  Vermont. 

To  any  who  may  think  that  they  discover  por 
traits  in  these  pages  I  desire  to  say  that  all  the  char- 


PREFACE 

acters — save  only  Silas  Wright  and  President  Van 
Buren  and  Barton  Baynes — are  purely  imaginary. 
However,  there  were  Grimshaws  and  Purvises  and 
Binkses  and  Aunt  Deels  and  Uncle  Peabodys  in 
almost  every  rustic  neighborhood  those  days,  and  I 
regret  to  add  that  Roving  Kate  was  on  many  roads. 
The  case  of  Amos  Grimshaw  bears  a  striking  resem 
blance  to  that  of  young  Bickford,  executed  long  ago 
in  Malone,  for  the  particulars  of  which  case  I  am 
indebted  to  my  friend,  Mr.  H.  L.  Ives  of  Potsdam. 

JHE  AUTHOR. 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  ONE 
WHICH  Is  THE  STORY  OF  THE  CANDLE  AND  COMPASS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    The  Melon  Harvest 19 

II    I  Meet  the  Silent  Woman  and  Silas  Wright,  Jr.  48 

III  We  Go  to  Meeting  and  See  Mr.  Wright  Again  79 

IV  Our  Little  Strange  Companion 88 

V    In  the  Light  of  the  Candles 112 

VI    The  Great  Stranger 122 

VII    My  Second  Peril 158 

VIII    My  Third  Peril 171 

BOOK  TWO 
WHICH  Is  THE  STORY  OF  THE  PRINCIPAL  WITNESS 

IX    In  Which  I  Meet  Other  Great  Men    ....  189 
X    I   Meet  President  Van  Buren  and  Am  Cross- 

Examined  by  Mr.  Grimshaw 214 

XI    A  Party  and— My  Fourth  Peril?     .     ....  236 

XII    The  Spirit  of  Michael  Henry  and  Others      .     .  255 

XIII  The  Thing  and  Other  Things    ......  277 

XIV  The  Bolt  Falls 298 

BOOK  THREE 
WHICH  Is  THE  STORY  OF  THE  CHOSEN  WAYS 

XV    Uncle  Peabody's  Way  and  Mine 307 

XVI    I  Use  My  Own  Compass  at  a  Fork  in  the  Road  328 

XVII    The  Man  with  the  Scythe 355 

XVIII    I  Start  in  a  Long  Way 377 

XIX    On  the  Summit 397 

Epilogue >    >    >     .  415 


BOOK  ONE 


Which  is  the  Story  of  the   Candle 
and  the  Compass 


THE  LIGHT  IN  THE 
CLEARING 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  MELON   HARVEST 

ONCE  upon  a  time  I  owned  a  watermelon. 
I  say  once  because  I  never  did  it  again. 
When  I  got  through  owrning  that  melon  I 
never  wanted  another.    The  time  was  1831;  I  was 
a  boy  of  seven  and  the  melon  was  the  first  of  all 
my  harvests.     Every  night  and  morning  I  watered 
and  felt  and  surveyed  my  watermelon.     My  pride 
grew  with  the  melon  and,  by  and  by,  my  uncle  tried 
to  express  the  extent  and  nature  of  my  riches  by 
calling  me  a  mellionaire. 

I  didn't  know  much  about  myself  those  days  ex 
cept  the  fact  that  my  name  was  Bart  Baynes  and, 
further,  that  I  was  an  orphan  wrho  owned  a  water 
melon  and  a  little  spotted  hen  and  lived  on  Rattle- 
road  in  a  neighborhood  called  Lickitysplit.  I  lived 

19 


20        THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

with  my  Aunt  Deel  and  my  Uncle  Peabody  Baynes 
on  a  farm.  They  were  brother  and  sister — he  about 
thirty-eight  and  she  a  little  beyond  the  far-distant 
goal  of  forty. 

My  father  and  mother  died  in  a  scourge  of  diph 
theria  that  swept  the  neighborhood  when  I  was  a  boy 
of  five.  For  a  time  my  Aunt  Deel  seemed  to  blame 
me  for  my  loss. 

"No  wonder  they're  dead/'  she  used  to  say,  when 
out  of  patience  with  me  and — well  I  suppose  that  I 
must  have  had  an  unusual  talent  for  all  the  noisy 
arts  of  childhood  when  I  broke  the  silence  of  that 
little  home. 

The  word  "dead"  set  the  first  mile-stone  in  the 
long  stretch  of  my  memory.  That  was  because  I 
tried  so  hard  to  comprehend  it  and  further  because 
it  kept  repeating  its  challenge  to  my  imagination. 

I  often  wondered  just  what  had  become  of  my 
father  and  mother  and  I  remember  that  the  day  after 
I  went  to  my  aunt's  home  a  great  idea  came  to  me. 
It  came  out  of  the  old  dinner-horn  hanging  in  the 
shed.  I  knew  the  power  of  its  summons  and  I  slyly 
captured  the  horn  and  marched  around  the  house 
blowing  it  and  hoping  that  it  would  bring  my  father 
up  from  the  fields.  I  blew  and  blew  and  listened  for 
that  familiar  halloo  of  his.  When  I  paused  for  a 
drink  of  water  at  the  well  my  aunt  came  and  seized 
the  horn  and  said  it  was  no  wonder  they  were  dead. 


THE  MELON  HARVEST  21 

She  knew  nothing  of  the  sublime  bit  of  necromancy 
she  had  interrupted — poor  soul ! 

I  knew  that  she  had  spoken  of  my  parents  for  I 
supposed  that  they  were  the  only  people  in  the 
world  who  were  dead,  but  I  did  not  know  what  it 
meant  to  be  dead.  I  often  called  to  them,  as  I  had 
been  wont  to  do,  especially  in  the  night,  and  shed 
many  tears  because  they  came  no  more  to  answer 
me.  Aunt  Deel  did  not  often  refer  directly  to  my 
talents,  but  I  saw,  many  times,  that  no-wonder-they- 
died  look  in  her  face. 

Children  are  great  rememberers.  They  are  the  re 
cording  angels — the  keepers  of  the  book  of  life. 
Man  forgets — how  easily! — and  easiest  of  all,  the 
solemn  truth  that  children  do  not  forget. 

A  few  days  after  I  arrived  in  the  home  of  my 
aunt  and  uncle  I  slyly  entered  the  parlor  and  climbed 
the  what-not  to  examine  some  white  flowers  on  its 
top  shelf  and  tipped  the  whole  thing  over,  scatter 
ing  its  burden  of  albums,  wax  flowers  and  sea  shells 
on  the  floor.  My  aunt  came  running  on  her  tip 
toes  and  exclaimed :  "Mercy !  Come  right  out  o' 
here  this  minute — you  pest !" 

I  took  some  rather  long  steps  going  out  which 
were  due  to  the  fact  that  Aunt  Deel  had  hold  of  my 
hand.  While  I  sat  weeping  she  went  back  into  the 
parlor  and  began  to  pick  up  things. 

"My  wreath !  my  wreath !"  I  heard  her  moaning. 


22        THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

How  well  I  remember  that  little  assemblage  of 
flower  ghosts  in  wax!  They  had  no  more  right  to 
associate  with  human  beings  than  the  ghosts  of 
fable.  Uncle  Peabody  used  to  call  them  the 
"Minervy  flowers"  because  they  were  a  present  from 
his  Aunt  Minerva.  When  Aunt  Deel  returned  to 
the  kitchen  where  I  sat — a  sorrowing  little  refugee 
hunched  up  in  a  corner — she  said:  'Til  have  to 
tell  your  Uncle  Peabody — ayes !" 

"Oh  please  don't  tell  my  Uncle  Peabody,"  I 
wailed. 

"Ayes !  I'll  have  to  tell  him,"  she  answered  firmly. 

For  the  first  time  I  looked  for  him  with  dread  at 
the  window  and  when  he  came  I  hid  in  a  closet  and 
heard  that  solemn  and  penetrating  note  in  her  voice 
as  she  said : 

"I  guess  you'll  have  to  take  that  boy  away — 
ayes!" 

"What  now?"  he  asked. 

"My  stars !  he  sneaked  into  the  parlor  and  tipped 
over  the  what-not  and  smashed  that  beautiful  wax 
wreath !" 

Her  voice  trembled. 

"Not  them  Minervy  flowers?"  he  asked  in  a  tone 
of  doleful  incredulity. 

"Ayes  he  did!" 

"And  tipped  over  the  hull  what-not?" 


THE  MELON  HARVEST  23 

"Ayes!" 

"Jerusalem  four-corners!"  he  exclaimed.  "I'll 
have  to — " 

He  stopped  as  he  was  wont  to  do  on  the  threshold 
of  strong  opinions  and  momentous  resolutions. 

The  rest  of  the  conversation  was  drowned  in  my 
own  cries  and  Uncle  Peabody  came  and  lifted  me 
tenderly  and  carried  me  up-stairs. 

He  sat  down  with  me  on  his  lap  and  hushed  my 
cries.  Then  he  said  very  gently : 

"Now,  Bub,  you  and  me  have  got  to  be  careful. 
What-nots  and  albums  and  wax  flowers  and  hair 
cloth  sofys  are  the  most  dang'rous  critters  in  St. 
Lawrence  County.  They're  purty  savage.  Keep 
your  eye  peeled.  You  can't  tell  what  minute  they'll 
jump  on  ye.  More  boys  have  been  dragged  away 
and  tore  to  pieces  by  'em  than  by  all  the  bears  and 
panthers  in  the  woods.  When  I  was  a  boy  I  got  a 
cut  acrost  my  legs  that  made  a  scar  ye  can  see  now, 
and  it  was  a  hair-cloth  sofy  that  done  it.  Keep  out 
o'  that  old  parlor.  Ye  might  as  well  go  into  a  cage 
o'  wolves.  How  be  I  goin'  to  make  ye  remember 
it?" 

"I  don't  know,"  I  whimpered  and  began  to  cry 
out  in  fearful  anticipation. 

He  set  me  in  a  chair,  picked  up  one  of  his  old  car 
pet-slippers  and  began  to  thump  the  bed  with  it.  He 


24        THE  LIGHT  nsr  THE  CLEARING 

belabored  the  bed  with  tremendous  vigor.  Mean 
while  he  looked  at  me  and  exclaimed :  "You  dread 
ful  child!" 

I  knew  that  my  sins  were  responsible  for  this 
violence.  It  frightened  me  and  my  cries  increased. 

The  door  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  opened  sud 
denly. 

Aunt  Deel  called : 

"Don't  lose  your  temper,  Peabody.  I  think  you've 
gone  fur  'nough — ayes !" 

Uncle  Peabody  stopped  and  blew  as  if  he  were 
very  tired  and  then  I  caught  a  look  in  his  face  that 
reassured  me. 

He  called  back  to  her:  "I  wouldn't  'a'  cared  so 
much  if  it  hadn't  'a'  been  the  what-not  and  them 
Minervy  flowers.  When  a  boy  tips  over  a  what 
not  he's  goin'  it  purty  strong." 

"Well  don't  be  too  severe.  You'd  better  come 
now  and  git  me  a  pail  o'  water — ayes,  I  think  ye 
had." 

Uncle  Peabody  did  a  lot  of  sneezing  and  cough 
ing  with  his  big,  red  handkerchief  over  his  face  and 
I  was  not  old  enough  then  to  understand  it.  He 
kissed  me  and  took  my  little  hand  in  his  big  hard 
one  and  led  me  down  the  stairs. 

After  that  in  private  talks  uncle  and  I  always  re 
ferred  to  our  parlor  as  the  wolf  den  and  that  night, 
after  I  had  gone  to  bed,  he  lay  down  beside  me 


THE  MELON  HARVEST  25 

and  told  the  story  of  a  boy  who,  having  been  left 
alone  in  his  father's  house  one  day,  was  suddenly 
set  upon  and  roughly  handled  by  a  what-not,  a 
shaggy  old  hair-cloth  sofy  and  an  album.  The 
sofy  had  begun  it  by  scratchin'  his  face  and  he  had 
scratched  back  with  a  shingle  nail.  The  album  had 
watched  its  chance  and,  when  he  stood  beneath  it, 
had  jumped  off  a  shelf  on  to  his  head.  Suddenly 
he  heard  a  voice  calling  him : 

"Little  boy,  come  here,"  it  said,  and  it  was  the 
voice  of  the  what-not. 

"Just  step  up  on  this  lower  shelf,"  says  the  old 
what-not.  "I  want  to  show  ye  somethin'." 

The  what-not  was  all  covered  with  shiny  things 
and  looked  as  innocent  as  a  lamb. 

He  went  over  and  stepped  on  the  lower  shelf  and 
then  the  savage  thing  jumped  right  on  top  of  him, 
very  supple,  and  threw  him  on  to  the  floor  and  held 
him  there  until  his  mother  came. 

I  dreamed  that  night  that  a  long-legged  what-not, 
with  a  wax  wreath  in  its  hands,  chased  me  around 
the  house  and  caught  and  bit  me  on  the  neck.  I 
called  for  help  and  uncle  came  and  found  me  on  the 
floor  and  put  me  back  in  bed  again. 

For  a  long  time  I  thought  that  the  way  a  man 
punished  a  boy  was  by  thumping  his  bed.  I  knew 
that  women  had  a  different  and  less  satisfactory 
method,  for  I  remembered  that  my  mother  had 


26         THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

spanked  me  and  Aunt  Deel  had  a  way  of  giving  my 
hands  and  head  a  kind  of  watermelon  thump  with 
the  middle  finger  of  her  right  hand  and  with  a 
curious  look  in  her  eyes.  Uncle  Peabody  used  to  call 
it  a  "snaptious  look."  Almost  always  he  whacked 
the  bed  with  his  slipper.  There  were  exceptions, 
however,  and,  by  and  by,  I  came  to  know  in  each 
case  the  destination  of  the  slipper  for  if  I  had  done 
anything  which  really  afflicted  my  conscience  that 
strip  of  leather  seemed  to  know  the  truth,  and  found 
its  way  to  my  person. 

My  Uncle  Peabody  was  a  man  of  a  thousand.  I 
often  saw  him  laughing  and  talking  to  himself  and 
strange  fancies  came  into  my  head  about  it. 

"Who  be  you  talkin'  to?"  I  asked. 

"Who  be  I  talkin'  to,  Bub?  Why  I'm  talkin'  to 
my  friends." 

"Friends?"  I  said. 

"The  friends  I  orto  have  had  but  ain't  got.  When 
I  git  lonesome  I  just  make  up  a  lot  o'  folks  and 
some  of  'em  is  good  comp'ny." 

He  loved  to  have  me  with  him,  as  he  worked,  and 
told  me  odd  tales  and  seemed  to  enjoy  my  prattle. 
I  often  saw  him  stand  with  rough  fingers  stirring 
his  beard,  just  beginning  to  show  a  sprinkle  of 
white,  while  he  looked  down  at  me  as  if  struck  with 
wonder  at  something  I  had  said. 

"Come  and  give  me  a  kiss,  Bub,"  he  would  say. 


THE  MELON  HAEVEST  27 

As  he  knelt  down,  I  would  run  to  his  arms  and  I 
wondered  why  he  always  blinked  his  gray  eyes  after 
he  had  kissed  me. 

He  was  a  bachelor  and  for  a  singular  reason.  I 
have  always  laid  it  to  the  butternut  trousers — the 
most  sacred  bit  of  apparel  of  which  I  have  any 
knowledge. 

"What  have  you  got  on  them  butternut  trousers 
for?"  I  used  to  hear  Aunt  Deel  say  when  he  came 
down-stairs  in  his  first  best  clothes  to  go  to  meet 
ing  or  "attend"  a  sociable — those  days  people  just 
went  to  meeting  but  they  always  "attended"  socia 
bles — "You're  a  \vearin'  'em  threadbare,  ayes!  I 
suppose  you've  sot  yer  eyes  on  some  one  o'  the 
girls.  I  can  always  tell — ayes  I  can!  When  you 
git  your  long  legs  in  them  butternut  trousers  I  know 
you're  warmin'  up — ayes !" 

I  had  begun  to  regard  those  light  brown  trousers 
with  a  feeling  of  awe,  and  used  to  put  my  hand 
upon  them  very  softly  when  uncle  had  them  on. 
They  seemed  to  rank  with  "sofys,"  albums  and 
what-nots  in  their  capacity  for  making  trouble. 

Uncle  Peabody  rarely  made  any  answer,  and  for 
a  time  thereafter  Aunt  Deel  acted  as  if  she  were 
about  done  with  him.  She  would  go  around  with  a 
stern  face  as  if  unaware  of  his  presence,  and  I  had 
to  keep  out  of  her  way.  In  fact  I  dreaded  the  but 
ternut  trousers  almost  as  much  as  she  did. 


28         THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

Once  Uncle  Peabody  had  put  on  the  butternut 
trousers,  against  the  usual  protest,  to  go  to  meeting. 

"Ayes !  you've  got  'em  on  ag'in,"  said  Aunt  Deel. 
"I  suppose  your  black  trousers  ain't  good  'nough. 
That's  'cause  you  know  Edna  Perry  is  goin'  to  be 
there — ayes !" 

Edna  Perry  was  a  widow  of  about  his  age  who 
was  visiting  her  sister  in  the  neighborhood. 

Aunt  Deel  wouldn't  go  to  church  with  us,  so  we 
went  off  together  and  walked  home  with  Mrs.  Perry. 
As  we  passed  our  house  I  saw  Aunt  Deel  looking 
out  of  the  window  and  waved  my  hand  to  her. 

When  we  got  home  at  last  we  found  my  aunt  sit 
ting  in  her  armchair  by  the  stove. 

"You  did  it — didn't  ye? — ayes,"  she  demanded 
rather  angrily  as  we  came  in. 

"Done  what?"  asked  Uncle  Peabody. 

"Shinin'  up  to  that  Perry  woman — ain't  ye? — 
ayes !  I  see  you're  bound  to  git  married — ayes !" 

I  had  no  idea  what  it  meant  to  get  married  but  I 
made  up  my  mind  that  it  was  something  pretty  low 
and  bad.  For  the  moment  I  blamed  Uncle  Peabody. 

Aunt  Deel's  voice  and  manner  seemed  to  indi 
cate  that  she  had  borne  with  him  to  the  limit  of  her 
patience. 

"Delia,"  said  my  uncle,  "I  wouldn't  be  so — " 

Again  he  checked  himself  for  fear  of  going  too 
far,  I  suppose. 


THE  MELON  HARVEST  29 

"My  heart !  my  heart !"  Aunt  Deel  exclaimed  and 
struggled  to  her  feet  sobbing,  and  Uncle  Peabody 
helped  her  to  the  lounge.  She  was  so  ill  the  rest 
of  the  day  that  my  uncle  had  to  go  for  the  doctor 
while  I  bathed  her  forehead  with  cold  water. 

Poor  Uncle  Peabody !  Every  step  toward  matri 
mony  required  such  an  outlay  of  emotion  and  such 
a  sacrifice  of  comfort  that  I  presume  it  seemed  to 
be  hardly  worth  while. 

Yet  I  must  be  careful  not  to  give  the  reader  a 
false  impression  of  my  Aunt  Deel.  She  was  a  thin, 
pale  woman,  rather  tall,  with  brown  hair  and  blue 
eyes  and  a  tongue — well,  her  tongue  has  spoken 
for  itself.  I  suppose  that  she  will  seem  inhumanly 
selfish  with  this  jealousy  of  her  brother. 

"I  promised  ma  that  I  would  look  after  you  and 
I'm  a-goin'  to  do  it — ayes!"  I  used  to  hear  her 
say  to  my  uncle. 

There  were  not  many  married  men  who  were  so 
thoroughly  looked  after.  This  was  due  in  part  to 
her  high  opinion  of  the  Baynes  family,  and  to  a  gen 
eral  distrust  of  women.  In  her  view  they  were  a  de 
signing  lot.  It  was  probably  true  that  Mrs.  Perry 
was  fond  of  show  and  would  have  been  glad  to  join 
the  Baynes  family,  but  those  items  should  not  have 
been  set  down  against  her.  There  was  Aunt  Deel's 
mistake.  She  couldn't  allow  any  humanity  in  other 
women. 


30         THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

She  toiled  incessantly.  She  washed  and  scrubbed 
and  polished  and  dusted  and  sewed  and  knit  from 
morning  until  night.  She  lived  in  mortal  fear  that 
company  would  come  and  find  her  unprepared — 
Alma  Jones  or  Jabez  Lincoln  and  his  wife,  or  Ben 
and  Mary  Humphries,  or  "Mr.  and  Mrs.  Horace 
Dunkelberg."  These  were  the  people  of  whom  she 
talked  when  the  neighbors  came  in  and  when  she 
was  not  talking  of  the  Bayneses.  I  observed  that 
she  always  said  "Mr.  and  Mrs.  Horace  Dunkel 
berg."  They  were  the  conversational  ornaments  of 
our  home.  "As  Mrs.  Horace  Dunkelberg  says,"  or, 
"as  I  said  to  Mr.  Horace  Dunkelberg,"  were  phrases 
calculated  to  establish  our  social  standing.  I  sup 
posed  that  the  world  was  peopled  by  Joneses,  Lin- 
coins,  Humphries  and  Dunkelbergs,  but  mostly  by 
Dunkelbergs.  These  latter  were  very  rich  people 
who  lived  in  Canton  village. 

I  know,  now,  how  dearly  Aunt  Deel  loved  her 
brother  and  me.  I  must  have  been  a  great  trial  to 
that  woman  of  forty  unused  to  the  pranks  of  chil 
dren  and  the  tender  offices  of  a  mother.  Naturally 
I  turned  from  her  to  my  Uncle  Peabody  as  a  refuge 
and  a  help  in  time  of  trouble  with  increasing  fond 
ness.  He  had  no  knitting  or  sewing  to  do  and 
when  Uncle  Peabody  sat  in  the  house  he  gave  all 
his  time  to  me  and  we  weathered  many  a  storm  to 
gether  as  we  >sat  silently  in  his  favorite  corner,  of 


THE  MELON  HARVEST  31 

an  evening,  where  I  always  went  to  sleep  in  his 
arms. 

He  and  I  slept  in  the  little  room  up-stairs,  "un 
der  the  shingles" — as  uncle  used  to  say.  I  in  a 
small  bed,  and  he  in  the  big  one  which  had  been  the 
receiver  of  so  much  violence.  So  I  gave  her  only 
a  qualified  affection  until  I  could  see  beneath  the 
words  and  the  face  and  the  correcting  hand  of  my 
Aunt  Deel. 

Uncle  made  up  the  beds  in  our  room.  Often  his 
own  bed  would  go  unmade.  My  aunt  would  upbraid 
him  for  laziness,  whereupon  he  would  say  that  when 
he  got  up  he  liked  the  feel  of  that  bed  so  much  that 
he  wanted  to  begin  next  night  right  where  he  had 
left  off. 

I  was  seven  years  old  when  Uncle  Peabody  gave 
me  the  watermelon  seeds.  I  put  one  of  them  in  my 
mouth  and  bit  it. 

"It  appears  to  me  there's  an  awful  draft  blowin' 
down  your  throat,"  said  Uncle  Peabody.  "You  ain't 
no  business  eatin'  a  melon  seed." 

"Why?"  was  my  query. 

'*  'Cause  it  was  made  to  put  in  the  ground.  Didn't 
you  know  it  was  alive?" 

"Alive!"  I  exclaimed. 

"Alive,"  said  he,  "I'll  show  ye." 

He  put  a  number  of  the  seeds  in  the  ground  and 
covered  them,  and  said  that  that  part  of  the  garden 


32        THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

should  be  mine.  I  watched  it  every  day  and  by  and 
by  two  vines  came  up.  One  sickened  and  died  in  dry 
weather.  Uncle  Peabody  said  that  I  must  water  the 
other  every  day.  I  did  it  faithfully  and  the  vine 
throve. 

"What  makes  it  grow?"  I  asked. 

"The  same  thing  that  makes  you  grow,"  said 
Uncle  Peabody.  "You  can  do  lots  of  things  but 
there's  only  one  thing  that  a  watermelon  can  do. 
It  can  just  grow.  See  how  it  reaches  out  toward 
the  sunlight!  If  we  was  to  pull  them  vines  around 
and  try  to  make  'em  grow  toward  the  north  they 
wouldn't  mind  us.  They'd  creep  back  and  go  reachin' 
toward  the  sunlight  ag'in  just  as  if  they  had  a  com 
pass  to  show  'em  the  way." 

It  was  hard  work,  I  thought,  to  go  down  into  the 
garden,  night  and  morning,  with  my  little  pail  full 
of  water,  but  uncle  said  that  I  should  get  my  pay 
when  the  melon  was  ripe.  I  had  also  to  keep  the 
wood-box  full  and  feed  the  chickens.  They  were 
odious  tasks.  When  I  asked  Aunt  Deel  what  I 
should  get  for  doing  them  she  answered  quickly : 

"Nospanks  and  bread  and  butter — ayes!" 

When  I  asked  what  were  "nospanks"  she  told  me 
that  they  were  part  of  the  wages  of  a  good  child.  I 
was  better  paid  for  my  care  of  the  watermelon  vine, 
for  its  growth  was  measured  with  a  string  every  day 


THE  MELON  HARVEST  33 

and  kept  me  interested.  One  morning  I  found  five 
blossoms  on  it.  I  picked  one  and  carried  it  to  Aunt 
Deel.  Another  I  destroyed  in  the  tragedy  of  catch 
ing  a  bumblebee  which  had  crawled  into  its  cup. 
In  due  time  three  small  melons  appeared.  When 
they  were  as  big  as  a  baseball  I  picked  two  of  them. 
One  I  tasted  and  threw  away  as  I  ran  to  the  pump 
for  relief.  The  other  I  hurled  at  a  dog  on  my  way 
to  school. 

So  that  last  melon  on  the  vine  had  my  undivided 
affection.  It  grew  in  size  and  reputation,  and  soon 
I  learned  that  a  reputation  is  about  the  worst  thing 
that  a  watermelon  can  acquire  while  it  is  on  the 
vine.  I  invited  everybody  that  came  to  the  house  to 
go  and  see  my  watermelon.  They  looked  it  over 
and  said  pleasant  things  about  it.  When  I  was  a 
boy  people  used  to  treat  children  and  watermelons 
with  a  like  solicitude.  Both  were  a  subject  for  jests 
and  both  produced  similar  reactions  in  the  human 
countenance. 

Aunt  Deel  often  applied  the  watermelon  test  to 
my  forehead  and  discovered  in  me  a  capacity  for 
noise  which  no  melon  could  rival.  That  act  be 
came  very  familiar  to  me,  for  when  my  melon  was 
nearing  the  summit  of  its  fame  and  influence,  all 
beholders  thumped  its  rounded  side  with  the  middle 
finger  of  the  right  hand,  and  said  that  they  guessed 


34<         THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

they'd  steal  it.  I  knew  that  this  was  some  kind  of 
a  joke  and  a  very  idle  one  for  they  had  also  threat 
ened  to  steal  me  and  nothing  had  come  of  it. 

At  last  Uncle  Peabody  agreed  with  me  that  it  was 
about  time  to  pick  the  melon.  I  decided  to  pick  it 
immediately  after  meeting  on  Sunday,  so  that  I 
could  give  it  to  my  aunt  and  uncle  at  dinner-time. 
When  we  got  home  I  ran  for  the  garden.  My  feet 
and  those  of  our  friends  and  neighbors  had  literally 
worn  a  path  to  the  melon.  In  eager  haste  I  got  my 
little  wheelbarrow  and  ran  with  it  to  the  end  of  that 
path.  There  I  found  nothing  but  broken  vines ! 
The  melon  had  vanished.  I  ran  back  to  the  house  al 
most  overcome  by  a  feeling  of  alarm,  for  I  had 
thought  long  of  that  hour  of  pride  when  I  should 
bring  the  melon  and  present  it  to  my  aunt  and  uncle. 

"Uncle  Peabody,"  I  shouted,  "my  melon  is  gone/' 

"Well  I  van!"  said  he,  "somebody  must  'a'  stole 
it." 

"Stole  it?"  I  repeated  the  words  without  fully 
comprehending  what  they  meant. 

"But  it  was  my  melon,"  I  said  with  a  trembling 
voice. 

"Yes  and  I  vum  it's  too  bad !  But,  Bart,  you  ain't 
learned  yit  that  there  are  wicked  people  in  the  world 
who  come  and  take  what  don't  belong  to  'em." 

There  were  tears  in  my  eyes  when  I  asked : 

"They'll  bring  it  back,  won't  they?" 


THE  MELON  HARVEST  35 

"Never !"  said  Uncle  Peabody,  "I'm  afraid  they've 
et  it  up." 

He  had  no  sooner  said  it  than  a  cry  broke  from 
my  lips,  and  I  sank  down  upon  the  grass  moaning 
and  sobbing.  I  lay  amidst  the  ruins  of  the  simple 
faith  of  childhood.  It  was  as  if  the  world  and  all 
its  joys  had  come  to  an  end. 

"You  can't  blame  the  boy,"  I  heard  Uncle  Pea- 
body  saying.  "He's  fussed  with  that  melon  all  sum 
mer.  He  wanted  to  give  it  to  you  for  a  present." 

"Ayes  so  he  did !  Well  I  declare !  I  never  thought 
o'  that— ayes!" 

Aunt  Deel  spoke  in  a  low,  kindly  tone  and  came 
and  lifted  me  to  my  feet  very  tenderly. 

"Come,  Bart,  don't  feel  so  about  that  old  melon," 
said  she,  "it  ain't  worth  it.  Come  with  me.  I'm 
goin'  to  give  you  a  present — ayes  I  be !" 

I  was  still  crying  when  she  took  me  to  her  trunk, 
and  offered  the  grateful  assuagement  of  candy  and 
a  belt,  all  embroidered  with  blue  and  white  beads. 

"Now  you  see,  Bart,  how  low  and  mean  anybody 
is  that  takes  what  don't  belong  to  'em — ayes !  They're 
snakes!  Everybody  hates  'em  an'  stamps  on  'em 
when  they  come  in  sight — ayes !" 

The  abomination  of  the  Lord  was  in  her  look 
and  manner.  How  it  shook  my  soul !  He  who  had 
taken  the  watermelon  had  also  taken  from  me  some 
thing  I  was  never  to  have  again,  and  a  very  won- 


36        THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

derful  thing  it  was — faith  in  the  goodness  of  men. 
My  eyes  had  seen  evil.  The  world  had  committed 
its  first  offense  against  me  and  my  spirit  was  no 
longer  the  white  and  beautiful  thing  it  had  been. 
Still,  therein  is  the  beginning  of  wisdom  and,  look 
ing  down  the  long  vista  of  the  years,  I  thank  God 
for  the  great  harvest  of  the  lost  watermelon.  Bet 
ter  things  had  come  in  its  place — understanding  and 
what  more,  often  I  have  vainly  tried  to  estimate. 
For  one  thing  that  sudden  revelation  of  the  heart 
of  childhood  had  lifted  my  aunt's  out  of  the  cold 
storage  of  a  puritanic  spirit,  and  warmed  it  into  new 
life  and  opened  its  door  for  me. 

In  the  afternoon  she  sent  me  over  to  Wills*  to 
borrow  a  little  tea.  I  stopped  for  a  few  minutes  to 
play  with  Henry  Wills — a  boy  not  quite  a  year  older 
than  I.  While  playing  there  I  discovered  a  piece  of 
the  rind  of  my  melon  in  the  dooryard.  On  that 
piece  of  rind  I  saw  the  cross  which  I  had  made 
one  day  with  my  thumb-nail.  It  was  intended  to 
indicate  that  the  melon  was  solely  and  wholly  mine. 
I  felt  a  flush  of  anger. 

"I  hate  you,"  I  said  as  I  approached  him. 

"I  hate  you,"  he  answered. 

"You're  a  snake !"  I  said. 

We  now  stood,  face  to  face  and  breast  to  breast, 
like  a  pair  of  young  roosters.  He  gave  me  a  shove 
and  told  me  to  go  home.  I  gave  him  a  shove  and 


THE  MELON  HARVEST  37 

told  him  I  wouldn't.  I  pushed  up  close  to  him  again 
and  we  glared  into  each  other's  eyes. 

Suddenly  he  spat  in  my  face.  I  gave  him  a  scratch 
on  the  forehead  with  my  finger-nails.  Then  we  fell 
upon  each  other  and  rolled  on  the  ground  and  hit 
and  scratched  with  feline  ferocity. 

Mrs.  Wills  ran  out  of  the  house  and  parted  us. 
Our  blood  was  hot,  and  leaking  through  the  skin 
of  our  faces  a  little. 

"He  pitched  on  me,"  Henry  explained. 

I  couldn't  speak. 

"Go  right  home — this  minute — you  brat !"  said 
Mrs.  Wills  in  anger.  "Here's  your  tea.  Don't 
you  ever  come  here  again." 

I  took  the  tea  and  started  down  the  road  weeping. 
What  a  bitter  day  that  was  for  me !  I  dreaded  to 
face  my  aunt  and  uncle.  Coming  through  the  grove 
down  by  our  gate  I  met  Uncle  Peabody.  With 
the  keen  eyesight  of  the  father  of  the  prodigal  son 
he  had  seen  me  coming  "a  long  way  off"  and 
shouted : 

"Well  here  ye  be — I  was  kind  o'  worried,  Bub." 

Then  his  eye  caught  the  look  of  dejection  in  my 
gait  and  figure.  He  hurried  toward  me.  He  stopped 
as  I  came  sobbing  to  his  feet. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter?"  he  asked  gently,  as 
he  took  the  tea  cup  from  my  hand,  and  sat  down 
upon  his  heels. 

I  could  only  fall  into  his  arms  and  express  myself 


88        THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

in  the  grief  of  childhood.  He  hugged  me  close  and 
begged  me  to  tell  him  what  was  the  matter. 

'That  Wills  boy  stole  my  melon,"  I  said,  and  the 
words  came  slow  with  sobs. 

"Oh,  no  he  didn't,"  said  Uncle  Peabody. 

"Yes  he  did.    I  saw  a  piece  o'  the  rinV 

"Well  by — "  said  Uncle  Peabody,  stopping,  as 
usual,  at  the  edge  of  the  precipice. 

"He's  a  snake,"  I  added. 

"And  you  fit  and  he  scratched  you  up  that  way?" 

"I  scratched  him,  too." 

"Don't  you  say  a  word  about  it  to  Aunt  Deel. 
Don't  ever  speak  o'  that  miserable  melon  ag'in  to 
anybody.  You  scoot  around  to  the  barn,  an'  I'll 
be  there  in  a  minute  and  fix  ye  up." 

He  went  by  the  road  with  the  tea  and  I  ran  around 
to  the  lane  and  up  to  the  stable.  Uncle  Peabody 
met  me  there  in  a  moment  and  brought  a  pail  of 
water  and  washed  my  face  so  that  I  felt  and  looked 
more  respectable. 

"If  Aunt  Deel  asks  ye  about  them  scratches  you 
just  tell  her  that  you  and  Hen  had  a  little  disagree 
ment,"  said  my  uncle. 

She  didn't  ask  me,  probably  because  Uncle  Pea- 
body  had  explained  in  his  own  way,  and  requested 
her  to  say  nothing. 

The  worst  was  over  for  that  day  but  the  Baynes- 
Wills  feud  had  begun.  It  led  to  many  a  fight  in  the 


THE  MELON  HARVEST  39 

school  yard  and  on  the  way  home.  We  were  so 
evenly  matched  that  our  quarrel  went  on  for  a 
long  time  and  gathered  intensity  as  it  continued. 

One  day  Uncle  Peabody  had  given  me  an  egg  and 
said  that  there  was  a  chicken  in  it. 

"All  ye  have  to  do  is  to  keep  it  warm  an'  the 
chicken  will  come  to  life,  and  when  the  hen  is  off 
the  nest  some  day  it  will  see  light  through  the  shell 
and  peck  its  way  out,"  he  explained. 

He  marked  my  initials  on  the  egg  and  put  it  un 
der  a  hen  and  by  and  by  a  little  chicken  came  out 
of  the  shell.  I  held  it  in  my  palm — a  quivering, 
warm  handful  of  yellow  down.  Its  helplessness 
appealed  to  me  and  I  fed  and  watched  it  every  day. 
Later  my  uncle  told  me  that  it  was  a  hen  chick  and 
would  be  laying  eggs  in  four  months.  He  added : 

"It's  the  only  thing  it  can  do,  an'  if  it's  let  alone 
it'll  be  sure  to  do  it.  Follows  a  kind  of  a  compass 
that  leads  to  the  nest  every  time." 

This  chicken  grew  into  a  little  spotted  hen.  She 
became  my  sole  companion  in  many  a  lonely  hour 
when  Uncle  Peabody  had  gone  to  the  village,  or 
was  working  in  wet  ground,  or  on  the  hay  rack,  or 
the  mowing  machine  where  I  couldn't  be  with  him. 
She  was  an  amiable,  confiding  little  hen  who  put  her 
trust  in  me  and  kept  it  unto  the  day  of  her  death, 
which  came  not  until  she  had  reached  the  full  dignity 
of  mature  henhood. 


40         THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

She  was  like  many  things  on  the  farm — of  great 
but  unconsidered  beauty.  No  far-fetched  pheasant 
was  half  so  beautiful  as  she.  I  had  always  treated 
her  with  respect,  and  she  would  let  me  come  and 
sit  beside  her  while  she  rolled  in  the  dust  and  permit 
me  to  stroke  her  head  and  examine  her  wonderful 
dress  of  glossy  mottled  satin.  She  would  spread 
her  glowing  sleeves  in  the  sunlight,  and  let  me 
feel  their  downy  lining  with  my  fingers  and  see  how 
their  taut,  snug-fitting  plumes  were  set. 

I  remember  a  day  when  she  was  sitting  on  her 
nest  with  that  curious  expression  in  her  eyes  which 
seemed  to  say,  "Please  don't  bother  me  now  for  this 
is  my  busy  time,"  I  brought  three  little  kittens 
from  their  basket  in  the  wood-shed  and  put  them 
under  her.  The  kittens  felt  the  warmth  of  her  body 
and  began  to  mew  and  stir  about.  I  shall  never  for 
get  the  look  of  astonishment  in  the  little  hen  as  she 
slowly  rose  in  her  nest  and  peered  beneath  her  body 
at  the  kittens.  She  looked  at  me  as  if  to  say  that 
she  really  couldn't  be  bothered  with  those  furry 
things  any  longer — they  made  her  so  nervous.  She 
calmly  took  hold  of  one  of  them  with  her  bill  and 
lifted  it  out  of  the  nest.  She  continued  this  process 
of  eviction  until  they  were  all  removed,  when  she 
quietly  sat  down  again. 

I  mention  this  only  to  show  that  the  hen  and  I 
had  come  to  terms  of  intimacy  and  mutual  under- 


THE  MELON  HARVEST  41 

standing.  So  when  I  saw  Wills'  dog  catch  and 
kill  her  in  the  field  one  day,  where  she  was  hunting 
for  grasshoppers,  I  naturally  entertained  a  feeling 
of  resentment.  I  heard  the  cries  of  the  hen  and  ran 
through  the  orchard  and  witnessed  the  end  of  the 
tragedy  and  more.  Away  down  in  the  meadow  I 
saw  the  dog  and  farther  away  "the  Wills  boy,"  as 
we  then  called  him,  running  toward  his  home.  The 
dog  had  run  away  as  I  approached  and  when  I 
picked  up  the  lifeless  body  of  my  little  friend  the 
hills  seemed  to  lift  up  their  heads  and  fall  upon  me. 
Of  course  that  Wills  boy  had  set  the  dog  on  her. 
I  shall  write  no  more  of  that  hour  of  trial.  Such 
little  things  make  history,  and  it  is  necessary  that 
the  reader  should  understand  me. 

One  June  day  of  the  next  summer  Uncle  Peabody 
and  I,  from  down  in  the  fields,  saw  a  fine  carriage 
drive  in  at  our  gate.  He  stopped  and  looked  intently. 

"Jerusalem  four-corners!"  he  exclaimed.  "It's 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Horace  Dunkelberg." 

My  heart  beat  fast  at  thought  of  the  legendary 
Dunkelbergs.  Uncle  looked  me  over  from  top  to 
toe.  "Heavens!"  he  exclaimed.  "Go  down  to  the 
brook  and  wash  the  mud  off  yer  feet  an'  legs." 

I  ran  for  the  brook  and  before  I  had  returned  to 
my  uncle  I  heard  the  horn  blow. 

"The  Dunkelbergs! — the  Dunkelbergs!  Come 
quick!"  it  seemed  to  say. 


42         THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

Uncle  had  tied  a  red  handkerchief  around  his  neck 
and  was  readjusting  his  galluses  when  I  returned. 
In  silence  we  hurried  to  the  house.  As  we  drew 
near  I  heard  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Horace  Dunkelberg 
and  that  of  another  woman  quite  as  strange  to  my 
ear — a  high-pitched  voice  of  melting  amiability.  It 
was  the  company  voice  of  my  Aunt  Deel.  I  had 
observed  just  a  faint  suggestion  of  it  when  the  neigh 
bors  came,  or  when  meeting  was  over,  but  I  had 
never  before  heard  the  full-fledged  angelicity  of  her 
company  voice.  It  astonished  me  and  I  began  to 
regard  her  as  a  very  promising  old  lady.  Uncle 
Peabody,  himself,  had  undergone  a  change  in  the 
presence  of  the  Dunkelbergs.  He  held  his  neck 
straighter  and  smiled  more  and  spoke  with  greater 
deliberation. 

Mr.  Dunkelberg  was  a  big,  broad-shouldered,  sol 
emn-looking  man.  Somehow  his  face  reminded  me 
of  a  lion's  which  I  had  seen  in  one  of  my  picture- 
books.  He  had  a  thick,  long,  outstanding  mustache 
and  side  whiskers,  and  deep-set  eyes  and  heavy  eye 
brows.  He  stood  for  half  a  moment  looking  down 
at  me  from  a  great  height  with  his  right  hand  in 
his  pocket.  I  heard  a  little  jingle  of  coins  down 
where  his  hand  was.  It  excited  my  curiosity.  He 
took  a  step  toward  me  and  I  retreated.  I  feared,  a 
little,  this  big,  lion-like  man.  My  fears  left  me  sud- 


THE  MELON  HARVEST  48 

denly  when  he  spoke  in  a  small  squeaky  voice  that 
reminded  me  of  the  chirping  of  a  bird. 

"Little  boy,  come  here  and  I  will  make  you  a 
present/'  said  he. 

It  reminded  me  of  my  disappointment  when  uncle 
tried  to  shoot  his  gun  at  a  squirrel  and  only  the  cap 
cracked. 

I  went  to  him  and  he  laid  a  silver  piece  in  the 
palm  of  my  hand.  Aunt  Deel  began  to  hurry  about 
getting  dinner  ready  while  Uncle  Peabody  and  I  sat 
down  on  the  porch  with  our  guests,  among  whom 
was  a  pretty  blue-eyed  girl  of  about  my  own  age, 
with  long,  golden-brown  hair  that  hung  in  curls. 

"Sally,  this  is  Barton  Baynes — can't  you  shake 
hands  with  him?"  said  Mrs.  Dunkelberg. 

With  a  smile  the  girl  came  and  offered  me  her 
hand  and  made  a  funny  bow  and  said  that  she  was 
glad  to  see  me.  I  took  her  hand  awkwardly  and 
made  no  reply.  I  had  never  seen  many  girls  and 
had  no  very  high  opinion  of  them. 

My  attentive  ears  and  eyes  began  to  gather  facts 
in  the  history  of  the  Dunkelbergs.  Mr.  Dunkelberg 
had  throat  trouble,  and  bought  butter  and  cheese  and 
sent  it  to  Boston,  and  had  busted  his  voice  singing 
tenor,  and  was  very  rich.  I  knew  that  he  was  rich 
because  he  had  a  gold  watch  and  chain,  and  clothes 
as  soft  and  clean  as  the  butternut  trousers,  and  a  sil- 


44        THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

ver  ring  on  his  finger,  and  such  a  big  round  stomach. 
That  stomach  was  the  most  convincing  feature  of 
all  and,  indeed,  I  have  since  learned  that  the  rounded 
type  of  human  architecture  is  apt  to  be  more  ex 
pensive  than  the  angular. 

As  we  sat  there  I  heard  the  men  talking  about  the 
great  Silas  Wright,  who  had  just  returned  to  his 
home  in  Canton.  He  had  not  entered  my  conscious 
ness  until  then. 

While  I  sat  listening  I  felt  a  tweak  of  my  hair,  and 
looking  around  I  saw  the  Dunkelberg  girl  standing 
behind  me  with  a  saucy  smile  on  her  face. 

"Won't  you  come  and  play  with  me?"  she  asked. 

I  took  her  out  in  the  garden  to  show  her  where 
my  watermelon  had  lain.  At  the  moment  I  couldn't 
think  of  anything  else  to  show  her.  As  we  walked 
along  I  observed  that  her  feet  were  in  dainty  shiny 
button-shoes.  Suddenly  I  began  to  be  ashamed  of 
my  feet  that  were  browned  by  the  sunlight  and 
scratched  by  the  briers.  The  absent  watermelon 
didn't  seem  to  interest  her. 

"Let's  play  house  in  the  grove,"  said  she,  and 
showed  me  how  to  build  a  house  by  laying  rows  of 
stones  with  an  opening  for  a  door. 

"Now  you  be  my  husband,"  said  she. 

Oddly  enough  I  had  heard  of  husbands  but  had 
only  a  shadowy  notion  of  what  they  were.  I  knew 
that  there  was  none  in  our  house. 


THE  MELON  HARVEST  45 

"What's  that?"  I  asked. 

She  laughed  and  answered:  "Somebody  that  a 
girl  is  married  to." 

"You  mean  a  father?" 

"Yes." 

"Once  I  had  a  father,"  I  boasted. 

"Well,  we'll  play  we're  married  and  that  you  have 
just  got  home  from  a  journey.  You  go  out  in  the 
woods  and  then  you  come  home  and  I'll  meet  you  at 
the  door." 

I  did  as  she  bade  me  but  I  was  not  glad  enough  to 
see  her. 

"You  must  kiss  me,"  she  prompted  in  a  whisper. 

I  kissed  her  very  swiftly  and  gingerly — like  one 
picking  up  a  hot  coal — and  she  caught  me  in  her 
arms  and  kissed  me  three  times  while  her  soft  hair 
threw  its  golden  veil  over  our  faces. 

"Oh  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you,"  she  said  as  she  drew 
away  from  me  and  shook  back  her  hair. 

"Golly!  this  is  fun!"  I  said. 

"Ask :   'How  are  the  babies  ?'  "  she  whispered. 

"How  are  the  babies  ?"  I  asked,  feeling  rather  silly. 

"They're  fine.    I'm  just  putting  them  to  bed." 

We  sat  on  the  grass  and  she  had  a  stick  which  she 
pretended  to  be  dressing  and  often,  after  she  had 
spanked  the  stick  a  little,  she  made  a  noise  through 
closed  lips  like  that  of  a  child  crying. 


46        THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING  i 

"Now  go  to  sleep  and  I'll  tell  you  a  story,"  said 
she. 

Then  she  told  pretty  tales  of  fairies  and  of  grand 
ladies  and  noble  gentlemen  who  wore  gold  coats 
and  swords  and  diamonds  and  silks,  and  said  won 
derful  words  in  such  a  wonderful  way.  I  dare  say 
it  prospered  all  the  better  in  my  ears  because  of  the 
mystery  by  which  its  meanings  were  partly  hidden. 
I  had  many  questions  to  ask  and  she  told  me  what 
were  fairies  and  silks  and  diamonds  and  grand  la 
dies  and  noble  gentlemen. 

We  sat  down  to  one  of  our  familiar  dinners  of  salt 
pork  and  milk  gravy  and  apple  pie  now  enriched  by 
sweet  pickles  and  preserves  and  frosted  cake. 

A  query  had  entered  my  mind  and  soon  after  we 
began  eating  I  asked :  , 

"Aunt  Deel,  what  is  the  difference  between  a  boy 
and  a  girl  ?"  , 

There  was  a  little  silence  in  which  my  aunt  drew 
in  her  breath  and  exclaimed,  "W'y!"  and  turned 
very  red  and  covered  her  face  with  her  napkin. 
Uncle  Peabody  laughed  so  loudly  that  the  chickens 
began  to  cackle.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dunkelberg  also 
covered  their  faces.  Aunt  Deel  rose  and  went  to 
the  stove  and  shoved  the  teapot  along,  exclaiming: 

"Goodness,  gracious  sakes  alive!" 

The  tea  slopped  over  on  the  stove.  Uncle  Pea- 
body  laughed  louder  and  Mr.  Dunkelberg' s  face  was 


THE  MELON  HARVEST  47 

purple.  Shep  came  running  into  the  house  just  as 
I  ran  out  of  it.  I  had  made  up  my  mind  that  I  had 
done  something  worse  than  tipping  over  a  what-not. 
Thoroughly  frightened  I  fled  and  took  refuge  behind 
the  ash-house,  where  Sally  found  me.  I  knew  of 
one  thing  I  would  never  do  again.  She  coaxed  me 
into  the  grove  where  we  had  another  play  spell. 

I  needed  just  that  kind  of  thing,  and  wrhat  a  time 
it  was  for  me!  A  pleasant  sadness  comes  when  I 
think  of  that  day — it  was  so  long  ago.  As  the 
Dunkelbergs  left  us  I  stood  looking  down  the  road 
on  which  they  were  disappearing  and  saw  in  the 
sky  and  the  distant,  purple  hills  and  sloping 
meadows  the  beauty  of  the  world.  The  roaring 
aeroplane  of  a  humming  bird  whirled  about  me  and 
sped  through  the  hollyhock  towers.  I  followed  and 
watched  the  tiny  air-ship  sticking  its  prow  in  their 
tops,  as  if  it  would  have  me  see  how  wonderful  they 
were,  before  it  sped  away.  Breast  deep  in  the 
flowers  I  forgot  my  loneliness  for  a  few  minutes. 
But  that  evening  my  ears  caught  a  note  of  sadness 
in  the  voice  of  the  katydids,  and  memory  began  to 
play  its  part  with  me.  Best  of  all  I  remembered 
the  kisses  and  the  bright  blue  eyes  and  the  soft  curly 
hair  with  the  smell  of  roses  in  it. 


CHAPTER  II 

I  MEET  THE  SILENT  WOMAN  AND  SILAS  WRIGHT,  JR. 

A  OS  GRIMSHAW  was  there  in  our  door- 
yard  the  day  that  the  old  ragged  woman 
came  along  and  told  our  fortunes — she 
that  was  called  Rovin'  Kate,  and  was  said  to  have 
the  gift  of  "second  sight,"  whatever  that  may  be. 
It  was  a  bright  autumn  day  and  the  leaves  lay  deep 
in  the  edge  of  the  woodlands.     She  spoke  never  a 
word  but  stood  pointing  at  her  palm  and  then  at 
Amos  and  at  me. 

I  was  afraid  of  the  old  woman — she  looked  so 
wild  and  ragged.  I  have  never  seen  a  human  being 
whose  look  and  manner  suggested  a  greater  capacity 
for  doing  harm.  Yet  there  was  a  kindly  smile  on 
her  tanned  face  when  she  looked  at  me.  Young  as 
I  was,  the  truth  came  home  to  me,  somehow,  that 
she  was  a  dead  but  undeparted  spirit  and  belonged 
to  another  world.  I  remember  the  tufts  of  gray 
hair  above  her  blue  eyes;  the  mole  on  the  side  of  her 
aquiline  nose;  her  pointed  chin  and  small  mouth. 
She  carried  a  cane  in  her  bony  right  hand  and  the 
notion  came  to  me  that  she  was  looking  for  bad  boys 
who  deserved  a  cudgeling. 

48 


I  MEET  THE  SILENT  WOMAN         49 

Aunt  Deel  nodded  and  said : 

"Ayes,  Kate — tell  their  fortunes  if  ye've  anything 
to  say — ayes!" 

She  brought  two  sheets  of  paper  and  the  old 
woman  sat  down  upon  the  grass  and  began  to  write 
with  a  little  stub  of  a  pencil.  I  have  now  those  fate 
ful  sheets  of  paper  covered  by  the  scrawls  of  old 
Kate.  I  remember  how  she  shook  her  head  and 
sighed  and  sat  beating  her  forehead  with  the 
knuckles  of  her  bony  hands  after  she  had  looked  at 
the  palm  of  Amos.  Swiftly  the  point  of  her  pencil 
ran  over  and  up  and  down  the  sheet  like  the  move 
ments  of  a  frightened  serpent.  In  the  silence  how 
loudly  the  pencil  seemed  to  hiss  in  its  swift  lines 
and  loops. 

My  aunt  exclaimed  "Mercy !"  as  she  looked  at  the 
sheet ;  for  while  I  knew  not,  then,  the  strange  device 
upon  the  paper,  I  knew,  by  and  by,  that  it  was  a 
gibbet.  Beneath  it  were  the  words :  "Money  thirst 
shall  burn  like  a  fire  in  him." 

She  rose  and  smiled  as  she  looked  into  my  face. 
I  saw  a  kind,  gentle  glow  in  her  eyes  that  reassured 
me.  She  clapped  her  hands  with  joy.  She  exam 
ined  my  palm  and  grew  serious  and  stood  looking 
thoughtfully  at  the  setting  sun. 

I  see,  now,  her  dark  figure  standing  against  the 
sunlight  as  it  stood  that  day  with  Amos  in  its 
shadow.  What  a  singular  eloquence  in  her  pose 


50         THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

and  gestures  and  in  her  silence !  I  remember  how  it 
bound  our  tongues — that  silence  of  hers !  She  cov 
ered  her  eyes  with  her  left  hand  as  she  turned  away 
from  us.  Slowly  her  right  hand  rose  above  her 
head  with  its  index  finger  extended  and  slowly 
came  down  to  her  side.  It  rose  again  with  two  fin 
gers  showing  and  descended  as  before.  She  repeated 
this  gesture  until  her  four  bony  fingers  had  been 
spread  in  the  air  above  her.  How  it  thrilled  me! 
Something  jumped  to  life  in  my  soul  at  the  call  of 
her  moving  hand.  I  passed  a  new  gate  of  my  imag 
ination,  I  fancy,  and  if  I  have  a  way  of  my  own  in 
telling  things  it  began  that  moment. 

The  woman  turned  with  a  kindly  smile  and  sat 
down  in  the  grass  again  and  took  the  sheet  of 
paper  and  resting  it  on  a  yellow-covered  book  be 
gan  to  write  these  words : 

"I  see  the  longing  of  the  helper.  One,  two,  three, 
four  great  perils  shall  strike  at  him.  He  shall  not 
be  afraid.  God  shall  fill  his  heart  with  laughter. 
I  hear  guns,  I  hear  many  voices.  His  name  is  in 
them.  He  shall  be  strong.  The  powers  of  dark 
ness  shall  fear  him,  he  shall  be  a  lawmaker  and  the 
friend  of  God  and  of  many  people,  and  great  men 
shall  bow  to  his  judgment  and  he  shall — " 

She  began  shaking  her  head  thoughtfully  and  did 
not  finish  the  sentence,  and  by  and  by  the  notion 


Slowly  her  right  hand  rose  above  her 


I  MEET  THE  SILENT  WOMAN         51 

came  to  me  that  some  unpleasant  vision  must  have 
halted  her  pencil. 

Aunt  Deel  brought  some  luncheon  wrapped  in 
paper  and  the  old  woman  took  it  and  went  away. 
My  aunt  folded  the  sheets  and  put  them  in  her 
trunk  and  we  thought  no  more  of  them  until — but 
we  shall  know  soon  what  reminded  us  of  the  prophet 
woman. 

The  autumn  passed  swiftly.  I  went  to  the  village 
one  Saturday  with  Uncle  Peabody  in  high  hope  of 
seeing  the  Dunkelbergs,  but  at  their  door  we  learned 
that  they  had  gone  up  the  river  on  a  picnic.  What 
a  blow  it  was  to  me !  Tears  flowed  down  my  cheeks 
as  I  clung  to  my  uncle's  hand  and  walked  back  to 
the  main  street  of  the  village.  A  squad  of  small 
boys  jeered  and  stuck  out  their  tongues  at  me.  It 
was  pity  for  my  sorrows,  no  doubt,  that  led  Uncle 
Peabody  to  take  me  to  the  tavern  for  dinner,  where 
they  were  assuaged  by  cakes  and  jellies  and  chicken 
pie. 

When  we  came  out  of  the  tavern  we  saw  Benjamin 
Grimshaw  and  his  son  Amos  sitting  on  the  well  curb. 
Each  had  a  half -eaten  doughnut  in  one  hand  and  an 
apple  in  the  other.  I  remember  that  Mr.  Grimshaw 
said  in  a  scolding  manner  which  made  me  dislike 
him: 

"Baynes,  I'm  glad  to  see  you're  so  prosperous. 
Only  the  rich  can  afford  to  eat  in  taverns.  Our  din- 


52         THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

ner  has  cost  us  just  three  cents,  an'  I  wouldn't  won 
der  if  I  was  worth  about  as  much  as  you  are." 

My  uncle  made  no  reply  and  we  passed  on  to  a 
store  nearly  opposite  the  well,  where  I  became  deeply 
interested  in  a  man  who  had  tapped  me  in  the 
stomach  with  his  forefinger  while  he  made  a  sound 
like  the  squealing  of  a  rat.  Then  he  said  to  Uncle 
Peabody : 

"Look  at  that  man  out  there  by  the  well!  He's 
the  richest  man  in  this  section  o'  country.  He  owns 
half  o'  this  village.  I  wouldn't  wonder  if  he  was 
worth  fifty  thousand  dollars  at  least.  What  do  ye 
suppose  he  spent  for  his  dinner?" 

"Three  cents,"  said  my  uncle. 

"Guess  again — it  was  a  cent  and  a  half.  He 
came  in  here  and  asked  how  much  were  the  dough 
nuts.  I  told  him  they  were  a  cent  a  piece.  He  of 
fered  me  three  cents  for  four  of  them — said  it  was 
all  the  change  he  had.  He  and  his  boy  are  eating 
them  with  some  apples  that  they  had  in  their 
pockets." 

I  remember  how  my  uncle  and  the  man  laughed 
as  the  latter  said :  "His  wealth  costs  too  much  alto 
gether.  'Tain't  worth  it" — a  saying  which  my  uncle 
often  quoted. 

Thus  early  I  got  a  notion  of  the  curious  extrava 
gance  of  the  money  worshiper.  How  different  was 
my  uncle,  who  cared  too  little  for  money ! 


I  MEET  THE  SILENT  WOMAN         53 

At  Christmas  I  got  a  picture-book  and  forty 
raisins  and  three  sticks  of  candy  with  red  stripes 
on  them  and  a  jew's-harp.  That  was  the  Christmas 
we  went  down  to  Aunt  Liza's  to  spend  the  day  and 
I  helped  myself  to  two  pieces  of  cake  when  the  plate 
was  passed  and  cried  because  they  all  laughed  at  my 
greediness.  It  was  the  day  when  Aunt  Liza's  boy, 
Truman,  got  a  silver  \vatch  and  chain  and  her 
daughter  Mary  a  gold  ring,  and  when  all  the  rela 
tives  were  invited  to  come  and  be  convinced,  once 
and  for  all,  of  Uncle  Roswell's  prosperity  and  be 
filled  with  envy  and  reconciled  with  jelly  and  pre 
serves  and  roast  turkey  with  sage  dressing  and 
mince  and  chicken  pie.  What  an  amount  of  prep 
aration  we  had  made  for  the  journey,  and  how  long 
we  had  talked  about  it!  When  we  had  shut  the 
door  and  were  ready  to  get  into  the  sleigh  our  dog 
Shep  came  whining  around  us.  I  shall  never  forget 
how  Uncle  Peabody  talked  to  him. 

"Go  back,  Shep — go  back  to  the  house  an*  stay 
on  the  piaz,"  he  began.  "Go  back  I  tell  ye.  It's 
Christmas  day  an'  we're  goin'  down  to  ol'  Aunt 
Liza's.  Ye  can't  go  way  down  there.  No,  sir,  ye 
can't.  Go  back  an'  lay  down  on  the  piaz." 

Shep  was  fawning  at  my  uncle's  foot  and  rubbing 
his  neck  on  his  boot  and  looking  up  at  him. 

"What's  that  ye  say?"  Uncle  Peabody  went  on, 
looking  down  and  turning  his  ear  as  if  he  had  heard 


54        THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

the  dog  speak  and  were  in  some  doubt  of  his  mean 
ing.  "Eh?  What's  that?  An  empty  house  makes 
ye  terrible  sad  on  a  Chris'mas  day?  What's  that? 
Ye  love  us  an'  ye'd  like  to  go  along  down  to  Aunt 
Liza's  an'  play  with  the  children  ?" 

It  was  a  clever  ruse  of  Uncle  Peabody,  for  Aunt 
Deel  was  softened  by  his  interpretation  of  the  dog's 
heart  and  she  proposed : 

"Le's  take  him  along  with  us — poor  dog!  ayes!" 

Then  Uncle  Peabody  shouted : 

"Jump  right  into  the  sleigh — you  ol'  skeezucks! 
— an'  I'll  cover  ye  up  with  a  hoss  blanket.  Git  in 
here.  We  ain't  goin'  to  leave  nobody  alone  on 
Chris'mas  day  that  loves  us — not  by  a  jug  full — 
no,  sir!  I  wouldn't  wonder  if  Jesus  died  for  dogs 
an'  hosses  as  well  as  for  men." 

Shep  had  jumped  in  the  back  of  the  sleigh  at  the 
first  invitation  and  lay  quietly  under  his  blanket  as 
we  hurried  along  in  the  well-trod  snow  and  the  bells 
jingled.  It  was  a  joyful  day  and  old  Shep  was  as 
merry  and  well  fed  as  the  rest  of  us. 

How  cold  and  sad  and  still  the  house  seemed 
when  we  got  back  to  it  in  the  evening!  We  had  to 
drive  to  a  neighbor's  and  borrow  fire  and  bring  it 
home  with  us  in  a  pail  of  ashes  as  we  were  out  of 
tinder.  I  held  the  lantern  for  my  uncle  while  he 
did  the  chores  and  when  we  had  gone  to  bed  I  fell 


I  MEET  THE  SILENT  WOMAN         55 

asleep  hearing  him  tell  of  Joseph  and  Mary  going 
to  pay  their  taxes. 

In  the  spring  my  uncle  hired  a  man  to  work  for 
us — a  noisy,  brawny,  sharp- featured  fellow  with 
keen  gray  eyes,  of  the  name  of  Dug  Draper.  Aunt 
Deel  hated  him.  I  feared  him  but  regarded  him 
with  great  hope  because  he  had  a  funny  way  of 
winking  at  me  with  one  eye  across  the  table  and, 
further,  because  he  could  sing  and  did  sing  while 
he  worked — songs  that  rattled  from  his  lips  in  a 
way  that  amused  me  greatly.  Then,  too,  he  could 
rip  out  words  that  had  a  new  and  wonderful  sound 
in  them.  I  made  up  my  mind  that  he  was  likely  to 
become  a  valuable  asset  when  I  heard  Aunt  Deel 
say  to  my  Uncle  Peabody : 

"You'll  have  to  send  that  loafer  away,  right  now, 
ayes  I  guess  you  will." 

"Why?" 

"Because  this  boy  has  learnt  to  swear  like  a 
pirate — ayes — he  has !" 

Uncle  Peabody  didn't  know  it  but  I  myself  had 
begun  to  suspect  it,  and  that  hour  the  man  was  sent 
away,  and  I  remember  that  he  left  in  anger  with  a 
number  of  those  new  words  flying  from  his  lips.  A 
forced  march  to  the  upper  room  followed  that  event. 
Uncle  Peabody  explained  that  it  was  wicked  to  swear 
— that  boys  who  did  it  had  very  bad  luck,  and  mine 


56        THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

came  in  a  moment.  I  never  had  more  of  it  come 
along  in  the  same  length  of  time. 

One  day  in  the  spring  when  the  frogs  were  chant 
ing  in  the  swamp  land,  they  seemed  to  be  saying, 
"Dunkelberg,  Dunkelberg,  Dunkelberg,  Dunkel- 
berg,"  from  morning  to  bedtime.  I  was  helping 
Uncle  Peabody  to  fix  the  fence  when  he  said : 

"Hand  me  that  stake,  Bub.  Don't  be  so  much  of 
a  gentleman." 

I  handed  the  stake  to  him  and  then  I  said : 

"Uncle  Peabody,  I  want  to  be  a  gentleman." 

"A  gentleman!"  he  exclaimed  as  he  looked  down 
at  me  thoughtfully. 

"A  grand,  noble  gentleman  with  a  sword  and  a 
gold  watch  and  chain  and  diamonds  on,"  I  exclaimed. 

He  leaned  against  the  top  rail  of  the  fence  and 
looked  down  at  me  and  laughed. 

"Whatever  put  that  in  yer  head?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know — how  do  ye  be  it?"  I  de 
manded. 

"They's  two  ways,"  said  he.  "One  is  to  begin 
'fore  you're  born  and  pick  out  the  right  father. 
T'other  is  to  begin  after  you're  born  and  pick  out 
the  right  son.  You  can  make  yerself  whatever  you 
want  to  be.  It's  all  inside  of  a  boy  and  it  comes  out 
by  and  by — swords  and  gold  and  diamonds,  or  rags 
an'  dirt  an'  shovels  an'  crowbars." 

I  wondered  what  I  had  inside  of  me. 


I  MEET  THE  SILENT  WOMAN         57 

"I  guess  I  ain't  got  any  sword  in  me,"  I  said. 

"When  you've  been  eating  green  apples  and  I 
wouldn't  wonder,"  he  answered  as  he  went  on  with 
his  work. 

"Once  I  thought  I  heard  a  watch  tickin'  in  my 
throat,"  I  said  hopefully. 

"I  don't  mean  them  things  is  really  in  ye,  but  the 
power  to  git  'em  is  in  ye,"  said  Uncle  Peabody. 
"That's  what  I  mean — power.  Be  a  good  boy  and 
study  yer  lessons  and  never  lie,  and  the  power'll 
come  into  ye  jest  as  sure  as  you're  alive." 

I  began  to  watch  myself  for  symptoms  of  power. 

After  I  ceased  to  play  with  the  Wills  boy  Uncle 
Peabody  used  to  say,  often,  it  was  a  pity  that  I 
hadn't  somebody  of  my  own  age  for  company. 
Every  day  I  felt  sorry  that  the  Wills  boy  had  turned 
out  so  badly,  and  I  doubt  not  the  cat  and  the  shep 
herd  dog  and  the  chickens  and  Uncle  Peabody  also 
regretted  his  failures,  especially  the  dog  and  Uncle 
Peabody,  who  bore  all  sorts  of  indignities  for  my 
sake. 

In  the  circumstances  I  had  to  give  a  good  deal  of 
time  to  the  proper  education  of  my  uncle.  Nat 
urally  he  preferred  to  waste  his  time  with  shovels 
and  rakes.  But  he  soon  learned  how  to  roll  a  hoop 
and  play  tag  and  ball  and  yard  off  and  how  to  run 
like  a  horse  when  I  sat  on  his  shoulders.  It  was 
rather  hard  on  him,  after  his  work  in  the  fields,  but 


58        THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

he  felt  his  responsibility  and  applied  himself  with 
due  diligence  and  became  a  very  promising  child. 
I  also  gave  strict  attention  to  his  talent  for  story 
telling.  It  improved  rapidly.  Being  frank  in  my 
criticism  he  was  able  to  profit  by  all  his  failures  in 
taste  and  method,  so  that  each  story  had  a  fierce 
bear  in  it  and  a  fair  amount  of  growling  by  and  by. 
But  I  could  not  teach  him  to  sing,  and  it  was  a  great 
sorrow  to  me.  I  often  tried  and  he  tried,  but  I  saw 
that  it  wasn't  going  to  pay.  He  couldn't  make  the 
right  kind  of  a  noise.  Through  all  this  I  did  not 
neglect  his  morals.  If  he  said  an  improper  word — 
and  I  regret  to  say  that  he  did  now  and  then — I 
promptly  corrected  him  and  reported  his  conduct  to 
Aunt  Deel,  and  if  she  was  inclined  to  be  too  severe 
I  took  his  part  and,  now  and  then,  got  snapped  on 
the  forehead  for  the  vigor  of  my  defense.  On  the 
whole  it  is  no  wonder  that  Uncle  Peabody  wearied 
of  his  schooling. 

One  day  when  Uncle  Peabody  went  for  the  mail 
he  brought  Amos  Grimshaw  to  visit  me.  I  had  not 
seen  him  since  the  day  he  was  eating  doughnuts  in 
the  village  with  his  father.  He  was  four  years 
older  than  I — a  freckled,  red-haired  boy  with  a  large 
mouth  and  thin  lips.  He  wore  a  silver  watch  and 
chain,  which  strongly  recommended  him  in  my  view 
and  enabled  me  to  endure  his  air  of  condescension. 

He  let  me  feel  it  and  look  it  all  over  and  I  slyly 


I  MEET  THE  SILENT  WOMAN         59 

touched  the  chain  with  my  tongue  just  to  see  if  it 
had  any  taste  to  it,  and  Amos  told  me  that  his  grand 
father  had  given  it  to  him  and  that  it  always  kept 
him  "kind  o'  scairt." 

"Why?" 

"For  fear  I'll  break  er  lose  it  an1  git  licked,"  he 
answered. 

We  went  and  sat  down  on  the  hay  together,  and 
I  showed  him  the  pennies  I  had  saved  and  he  showed 
me  where  his  father  had  cut  his  leg  that  morning 
with  a  blue  beech  rod. 

"Don't  you  ever  git  licked  ?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  I  answered. 

"I  guess  that's  because  you  ain't  got  any  father," 
he  answered.  "I  wish  I  hadn't.  There's  nobody  so 
mean  as  a  father.  Mine  makes  me  work  every  day 
an'  never  gives  me  a  penny  an'  licks  me  whenever  I 
do  anything  that  I  want  to.  I've  made  up  my  mind 
to  run  away  from  home." 

After  a  moment  of  silence  he  exclaimed : 

"Gosh !  It's  awful  lonesome  here !  Gee  whittaker ! 
this  is  the  worst  place  I  ever  saw !" 

I  tried  to  think  of  something  that  I  could  say 
for  it. 

"We  have  got  a  new  corn  sheller,"  I  said,  rather 
timidly. 

"I  don't  care  about  your  corn  shellers,"  he  an 
swered  with  a  look  of  scorn. 


60        THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

He  took  a  little  yellow  paper-covered  book  from 
his  pocket  and  began  to  read  to  himself. 

I  felt  thoroughly  ashamed  of  the  place  and  sat 
near  him  and,  for  a  time,  said  nothing  as  he  read. 

"What's  that?"  I  ventured  to  ask  by  and  by. 

"A  story,"  he  answered.  "I  met  that  ragged  ol' 
woman  in  the  road  t'other  day  an'  she  give  me  a  lot 
of  'em  an'  showed  me  the  pictures  an'  I  got  to 
readin'  'em.  Don't  you  tell  anybody  'cause  my  ol' 
dad  hates  stories  an'  he'd  lick  me  'til  I  couldn't 
stan'  if  he  knew  I  was  readin'  'em." 

I  begged  him  to  read  out  loud  and  he  read  from  a 
tale  of  two  robbers  named  Thunderbolt  and  Light- 
foot  who  lived  in  a  cave  in  the  mountains.  They 
were  bold,  free,  swearing  men  who  rode  beautiful 
horses  at  a  wild  gallop  and  carried  guns  and  used 
them  freely  and  with  unerring  skill,  and  helped 
themselves  to  what  they  wanted. 

He  stopped,  by  and  by,  and  confided  to  me  the 
fact  that  he  thought  he  would  run  away  and  join 
a  band  of  robbers. 

"How  do  you  run  away?"  I  asked. 

"Just  take  the  turnpike  and  keep  goin'  toward  the 
mountains.  When  ye  meet  a  band  o'  robbers  give 
'em  the  sign  an'  tell  'em  you  want  to  join." 

He  went  on  with  the  book  and  read  how  the  rob 
bers  had  hung  a  captive  who  had  persecuted  them 
and  interfered  with  their  sport.  The  story  explained 


I  MEET  THE  SILENT  WOMAN         61 

how  they  put  the  rope  around  the  neck  of  the  cap 
tive  and  threw  the  other  end  of  it  over  the  limb  of 
a  tree  and  pulled  the  man  into  the  air. 

He  stopped  suddenly  and  demanded :  "Is  there  a 
long  rope  here?" 

I  pointed  to  Uncle  Peabody's  hay  rope  hanging 
on  a  peg. 

"Le's  hang  a  captive,"  he  proposed. 

At  first  I  did  not  comprehend  his  meaning.  He 
got  the  rope  and  threw  its  end  over  the  big  beam. 
Our  old  shepherd  dog  had  been  nosing  the  mow 
near  us  for  rats.  Amos  caught  the  dog  who,  suspect 
ing  no  harm,  came  passively  to  the  rope's  end.  He 
tied  the  rope  around  the  dog's  neck. 

"We'll  draw  him  up  once — it  won't  hurt  him 
any,"  he  proposed. 

I  looked  at  him  in  silence.  My  heart  smote  me, 
but  I  hadn't  the  courage  to  take  issue  with  the  owner 
of  a  silver  watch.  When  the  dog  began  to  struggle 
I  threw  my  arms  about  him  and  cried.  Aunt  Deel 
happened  to  be  near.  She  came  and  saw  Amos  pull 
ing  at  the  rope  and  me  trying  to  save  the  dog. 

"Come  right  down  off 'm  that  mow — this  minute," 
said  she. 

When  we  had  come  down  and  the  dog  had  fol 
lowed  pulling  the  rope  after  him,  Aunt  Deel  was 
pale  with  anger. 

"Go  right  home — right  home,"  said  she  to  Amos. 


62        THE  EIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

"Mr.  Baynes  said  that  he  would  take  me  up  with 
the  horses,"  said  Amos. 

"Ye  can  use  shank's  horses — ayes ! — they're  good 
enough  for  you,"  Aunt  Deel  insisted,  and  so  the  boy 
went  away  in  disgrace. 

I  blushed  to  think  of  the  poor  opinion  he  would 
have  of  the  place  now.  It  seemed  to  me  a  pity  that 
it  should  be  made  any  worse,  but  I  couldn't  help  it. 

"Where  are  your  pennies  ?"  Aunt  Deel  said  to  me. 

I  felt  in  my  pockets  but  couldn't  find  them. 

"Where  did  ye  have  'em  last?"  my  aunt  de 
manded. 

"On  the  haymow." 

"Come  an'  show  me." 

We  went  to  the  mow  and  searched  for  the  pen 
nies,  but  not  one  of  them  could  we  find. 

I  remembered  that  when  I  saw  them  last  Amos 
had  them  in  his  hand. 

"I'm  awful  'fraid  for  him — ayes  I  be !"  said  Aunt 
Deel.  "I'm  'fraid  Rovin'  Kate  was  right  about 
him — ayes !" 

"What  did  she  say?"  I  asked. 

"That  he  was  goin'  to  be  hung — ayes !  You  can't 
play  with  him  no  more.  Boys  that  take  what  don't 
belong  to  'em — which  I  hope  he  didn't — ayes  I  hope 
it  awful — are  apt  to  be  hung  by  their  necks  until 
they  are  dead — jest  as  he  was  goin'  to  hang  ol'  Shep 
— ayes ! — they  are !" 


I  MEET  THE  SILENT  WOMAN         63 

Again  I  saw  the  dark  figure  of  old  Kate  standing 
in  the  sunlight  and  her  ragged  garments  and  bony 
hands  and  heard  the  hiss  of  her  flying  pencil  point. 
I  clung  to  my  aunt's  dress  for  a  moment  and  then  I 
found  old  Shep  and  sat  down  beside  him  with  my 
arm  around  his  neck.  I  did  not  speak  of  the  story 
because  I  had  promised  not  to  and  felt  sure  that 
Amos  would  do  something  to  me  if  I  did. 

Uncle  Peabody  seemed  to  feel  very  badly  when 
he  learned  how  Amos  had  turned  out. 

"Don't  say  a  word  about  it,"  said  he.  "Mebbe 
you  lost  the  pennies.  Don't  mind  'em." 

Soon  after  that,  one  afternoon,  Aunt  Deel  came 
down  in  the  field  where  we  were  dragging.  While 
she  was  talking  with  Uncle  Peabody  an  idea  oc 
curred  to  me  and  the  dog  and  I  ran  for  the  house. 
There  was  a  pan  of  honey  on  the  top  shelf  of  the 
pantry  and  ever  since  I  had  seen  it  put  there  I  had 
cherished  secret  designs. 

I  ran  into  the  deserted  house,  and  with  the  aid  of 
a  chair  climbed  to  the  first  shelf  and  then  to  the 
next,  and  reached  into  the  pan  and  drew  out  a  comb 
of  honey,  and  with  no  delay  whatever  it  went  to  my 
mouth.  Suddenly  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  been 
hit  by  lightning.  It  was  the  sting  of  a  bee.  I  felt 
myself  going  and  made  a  wild  grab  and  caught  the 
edge  of  the  pan  and  down  we  came  to  the  floor — the 
pan  and  I— with  a  great  crash. 


64        THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

I  discovered  that  I  was  in  desperate  pain  and 
trouble  and  I  got  to  my  feet  and  ran.  I  didn't  know 
where  I  was  going.  It  seemed  to  me  that  any  other 
place  would  be  better  than  that.  My  feet  took  me 
toward  the  barn  and  I  crawled  under  it  and  hid 
there.  My  lip  began  to  feel  better,  by  and  by,  but 
big  and  queer.  It  stuck  out  so  that  I  could  see  it. 
I  heard  my  uncle  coming  with  the  horses.  I  con 
cluded  that  I  would  stay  where  I  was,  but  the  dog 
came  and  sniffed  and  barked  at  the  hole  through 
which  I  had  crawled  as  if  saying,  "Here  he  is !"  My 
position  was  untenable.  I  came  out.  Shep  began 
trying  to  clean  my  clothes  with  his  tongue.  Uncle 
Peabody  stood  near  with  the  horses.  He  looked  at 
me.  He  stuck  his  finger  into  the  honey  on  my  coat 
and  smelt  it. 

"Well,  by — "  he  stopped  and  came  closer  and 
asked. 

"What's  happened?" 

"Bee  stung  me,"  I  answered. 

"Where  did  ye  find  so  much  honey  that  ye  could 
go  swimmin'  in  it?"  he  asked. 

I  heard  the  door  of  the  house  open  suddenly  and 
the  voice  of  Aunt  Deel. 

"Peabody!  Peabody!  come  here  quick,"  she 
called. 

Uncle  Peabody  ran  to  the  house,  but  I  stayed  out 
with  the  dog. 


I  MEET  THE  SILENT  WOMAN         65 

Through  the  open  door  I  heard  Aunt  Deel  say 
ing:  "I  can't  stan'  it  any  longer  and  I  won't — not 
another  day — ayes,  I  can't  stan'  it.  That  boy  is  a 
reg'lar  pest." 

They  came  out  on  the  veranda.  Uncle  Peabody 
said  nothing,  but  I  could  see  that  he  couldn't  stand 
it  either.  My  brain  was  working  fast. 

"Come  here,  sir,"  Uncle  Peabody  called. 

I  knew  it  was  serious,  for  he  had  never  called  me 
"sir"  before.  I  went  slowly  to  the -steps. 

"My  lord!"  Aunt  Deel  exclaimed.  "Look  at 
that  lip  and  the  honey  all  over  him — ayes!  I  tell 
ye — I  can't  stan'  it." 

"Say,  boy,  is  there  anything  on  this  place  that 
you  ain't  tipped  over?"  Uncle  Peabody  asked  in  a 
sorrowful  tone.  "Wouldn't  ye  like  to  tip  the  house 
over?" 

I  was  near  breaking  down  in  this  answer : 

"I  went  into  the  but'ry  and  that  pan  jumped  on 
to  me." 

"Didn't  you  taste  the  honey?" 

"No,"  I  drew  in  my  breath  and  shook  my  head. 

"Liar,  too !"  said  Aunt  Deel.  "I  can't  stan'  it  an' 
I  won't." 

Uncle  Peabody  was  sorely  tried,  but  he  was  keep 
ing  down  his  anger.  His  voice  trembled  as  he  said : 

"Boy,  I  guess  you'll  have  to — " 

Uncle  Peabody  stopped.     He  had  been  driven  to 


66         THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

the  last  ditch,  but  he  had  not  stepped  over  it.  How 
ever,  I  knew  what  he  had  started  to  say  and  sat 
down  on  the  steps  in  great  dejection.  Shep  followed, 
working  at  my  coat  with  his  tongue. 

I  think  that  the  sight  of  me  must  have  touched 
the  heart  of  Aunt  Deel. 

"Peabody  Baynes,  we  mustn't  be  cruel,"  said  she 
in  a  softer  tone,  and  then  she  brought  a  rag  and 
began  to  assist  Shep  in  the  process  of  cleaning  my 
coat.  "Good  land!  He's  got  to  stay  here — ayes! 
— he  ain't  got  no  other  place  to  go  to." 

"But  if  you  can't  stan'  it,"  said  Uncle  Peabody. 

"I've  got  to  stan'  it — ayes! — I  can't  stan'  it,  but 
I've  got  to — ayes !  So  have  you." 

Aunt  Deel  put  me  to  bed  although  it  was  only  five 
o'clock.  As  I  lay  looking  up  at  the  shingles  a  singular 
resolution  came  to  me.  It  was  born  of  my  longing 
for  the  companionship  of  my  kind  and  of  my  resent 
ment.  I  would  go  and  live  with  the  Dunkelbergs. 
I  would  go  the  way  they  had  gone  and  find  them.  I 
knew  it  was  ten  miles  away,  but  of  course  everybody 
knew  where  the  Dunkelbergs  lived  and  any  one 
would  show  me.  I  would  run  and  get  there  before 
dark  and  tell  them  that  I  wanted  to  live  with  them, 
and  every  day  I  would  play  with  Sally  Dunkelberg. 
Uncle  Peabody  was  not  half  as  nice  to  play  with  as 
she  was. 

I  heard  Uncle  Peabody  drive  away.     I  watched 


I  MEET  THE  SILENT  WOMAN         67 

him  through  the  open  window.  I  could  hear  Aunt 
Deel  washing  the  dishes  in  the  kitchen.  I  got  out  of 
bed  very  slyly  and  put  on  my  Sunday  clothes.  I  went 
to  the  open  window.  The  sun  had  just  gone  over 
the  top  of  the  woods.  I  would  have  to  hurry  to  get 
to  the  Dunkelbergs'  before  dark.  I  crept  out  on  the 
top  of  the  shed  and  descended  the  ladder  that  leaned 
against  it.  I  stood  a  moment  listening.  The  dooryard 
was  covered  with  shadows  and  very  still.  The  dog 
must  have  gone  with  Uncle  Peabody.  I  ran  through 
the  garden  to  the  road  and  down  it  as  fast  as  my 
bare  feet  could  carry  me.  In  that  direction  the  near 
est  house  was  almost  a  mile  away.  I  remember  I  was 
out  of  breath,  and  the  light  growing  dim  before  I 
got  to  it.  I  went  on.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  had 
gone  nearly  far  enough  to  reach  my  destination 
when  I  heard  a  buggy  coming  behind  me. 

"Hello!"  a  voice  called. 

I  turned  and  looked  up  at  Dug  Draper,  in  a  single 
buggy,  dressed  in  his  Sunday  suit. 

"Is  it  much  further  to  where  the  Dunkelbergs 
live?"  I  asked. 

"The  Dunkelbergs  ?    Who  be  they  ?" 

It  seemed  to  me  very  strange  that  he  didn't  know 
the  Dunkelbergs. 

"Where  Sally  Dunkelberg  lives." 

That  was  a  clincher.  He  laughed  and  swore  and 
said: 


68         THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

"Git  in  here,  boy.    I'll  take  ye  there." 

I  got  into  the  buggy,  and  he  struck  his  horse  with 
the  whip  and  went  galloping  away  in  the  dusk. 

"I  reckon  you're  tryin'  to  git  away  from  that  old 
pup  of  an  aunt,"  said  he.  "I  don't  wonder.  I  rather 
live  with  a  she  bear." 

I  have  omitted  and  shall  omit  the  oaths  and  curses 
with  which  his  talk  was  flavored. 

"I'm  gittin'  out  o'  this  country  myself,"  said  he. 
"It's  too  pious  for  me." 

By  and  by  we  passed  Rovin'  Kate.  I  could  just 
discern  her  ragged  form  by  the  roadside  and  called 
to  her.  He  struck  his  horse  and  gave  me  a  rude 
shake  and  bade  me  shut  up. 

It  was  dark  and  I  felt  very  cold  and  began  to 
wish  myself  home  in  bed. 

"Ain't  we  most  to  the  Dunkelbergs'  ?"  I  asked. 

"No — not  yet,"  he  answered. 

I  burst  into  tears  and  he  hit  me  a  sounding  whack 
in  the  face  with  his  hand. 

"No  more  whimperin',"  he  shouted.  "Do  ye 
hear  me?" 

He  hurt  me  cruelly  and  I  was  terribly  frightened 
and  covered  my  face  and  smothered  my  cries  and 
was  just  a  little  quaking  lump  of  misery. 

He  shook  me  roughly  and  shoved  me  down  on  the 
buggy  floor  and  said : 


I  MEET  THE  SILENT  WOMAN         69 

"You  lay  there  and  keep  still;  do  you  hear?" 

"Yes,"  I  sobbed. 

I  lay  shaking  with  fear  and  fighting  my  sorrow 
and  keeping  as  still  as  I  could  with  it,  until,  wearied 
by  the  strain,  I  fell  asleep. 

What  an  angel  of  mercy  is  sleep !  Down  falls  her 
curtain  and  away  she  leads  us — delivered!  free! — 
into  some  magic  country  where  are  the  things  we 
have  lost — perhaps  even  joy  and  youth  and  strength 
and  old  friendships. 

What  befell  me  that  night  while  I  dreamed  of  play 
ing  with  the  sweet- faced  girl  I  have  wondered  often. 
Some  time  in  the  night  Dug  Draper  had  reached  the 
village  of  Canton,  and  got  rid  of  me.  He  had  prob 
ably  put  me  out  at  the  water  trough.  Kind  hands 
had  picked  me  up  and  carried  me  to  a  little  veranda 
that  fronted  the  door  of  a  law  office.  There  I  slept 
peacefully  until  daylight,  when  I  felt  a  hand  on  my 
face  and  awoke  suddenly.  I  remember  that  I  felt 
cold.  A  kindly  faced  man  stood  leaning  over  me. 

"Hello,  boy!"  said  he.  "Where  did  you  come 
from?" 

I  was  frightened  and  confused,  but  his  gentle 
voice  reassured  me. 

"Uncle  Peabody!"  I  called,  as  I  arose  and  looked 
about  me  and  began  to  cry. 

The  man  lifted  me  in  his  anus  and  held  me  close 


70         THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

to  his  breast  and  tried  to  comfort  me.  I  remember 
seeing  the  Silent  Woman  pass  while  I  was  in  his 
arms. 

"Tell  me  what's  your  name/'  he  urged. 

"Barton  Baynes,"  I  said  as  soon  as  I  could  speak. 

"Where  is  your  father?" 

"In  Heaven,"  I  answered,  that  being  the  place  to 
which  he  had  moved,  as  I  understood  it. 

"Where  do  you  live?" 

"In  Lickitysplit." 

"How  did  you  get  here  ?" 

"Dug  Draper  brought  me.  Do  you  know  where 
Sally  Dunkelberg  lives?" 

"Is  she  the  daughter  of  Horace  Dunkelberg?" 

"Mr.  and  Mrs.  Horace  Dunkelberg,"  I  amended. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know  her.  Sally  is  a  friend  of  mine. 
We'll  get  some  breakfast  and  then  we'll  go  and 
find  her." 

He  carried  me  through  the  open  door  of  his  office 
and  set  me  down  at  his  desk.  The  cold  air  of  ;ac 
night  had  chilled  me  and  I  was  shivering. 

"You  sit  there  and  I'll  have  a  fire  going  in  a  min 
ute  and  get  you  warmed  up." 

He  wrapped  me  in  his  coat  and  went  into  the  back 
room  and  built  a  fire  in  a  small  stove  and  brought 
me  in  and  set  me  down  beside  it.  He  made  some 
porridge  in  a  kettle  while  I  sat  holding  my  little 
hands  over  the  stove  to  warm  them,  and  a  sense  of 


I  MEET  THE  SILENT  WOMAN         71 

comfort  grew  in  me.  Soon  a  boy  came  bringing  a 
small  pail  of  fresh  milk  and  a  loaf  of  bread.  I  re 
member  how  curiously  the  boy  eyed  me  as  he  said 
to  my  new  friend : 

"Captain  Moody  wants  to  know  if  you'll  come  up 
to  dinner?" 

There  was  a  note  of  dignity  in  the  reply  which 
was  new  to  me,  and  for  that  reason  probably  I  have 
always  remembered  it. 

"Please  present  my  thanks  to  the  Captain  and  tell 
him  that  I  expect  to  go  up  to  Lickitysplit  in  the  town 
of  Ballybeen." 

He  dipped  some  porridge  into  bowls  and  put  them 
on  a  small  table.  My  eyes  had  watched  him  with 
growing  interest  and  I  got  to  the  table  about  as  soon 
as  the  porridge  and  mounted  a  chair  and  seized  a 
spoon. 

"One  moment,  Bart,"  said  my  host.  "By  jingo ! 
We've  forgotten  to  wash,  and  your  face  looks  like 
the  dry  bed  of  a  river.  Come  here  a  minute." 

He  led  me  out  of  the  back  door,  where  there  were 
a  wash-stand  and  a  pail  and  a  tin  basin  and  a  dish 
of  soft  soap.  He  dipped  the  pail  in  a  rain  barrel 
and  filled  the  basin,  and  I  washed  myself  and  waited 
not  upon  my  host,  but  made  for  the  table  and  began 
to  eat,  being  very  hungry,  after  hastily  drying  my 
face  on  a  towel.  In  a  minute  he  came  and  sat  down 
to  his  own  porridge  and  bread  and  butter. 


72        THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

"Bart,  don't  dig  so  fast,"  said  he.  "You're  down 
to  hard  pan  now.  .Never  be  in  a  hurry  to  see  the 
bottom  of  the  bowl." 

I  have  never  forgotten  the  look  of  amusement  in 
his  big,  smiling,  gray  eyes  as  they  looked  down  upon 
me  out  of  his  full,  ruddy,  smooth-shaven  face.  It 
inspired  confidence  and  I  whispered  timidly : 

"Could  I  have  some  more?" 

"All  you  want,"  he  answered,  as  he  put  another 
ladle  full  in  my  bowl. 

When  we  had  finished  eating  he  set  aside  the 
dishes  and  I  asked : 

"Now  could  I  go  and  see  Sally  Dunkelberg?" 

"What  in  the  world  do  you  want  of  Sally  Dunk 
elberg?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  just  to  play  with  her,"  I  said  as  I  showed 
him  how  I  could  sit  on  my  hands  and  raise  myself 
from  the  chair  bottom. 

"Haven't  you  any  one  to  play  with  at  home?" 

"Only  my  Uncle  Peabody." 

"Don't  you  like  to  play  with  him  ?" 

"Oh,  some,  but  he  can't  stand  me  any  longer. 
He's  all  tired  out,  and  my  Aunt  Deel,  too.  I've 
tipped  over  every  single  thing  on  that  place.  I 
tipped  over  the  honey  yesterday — spillt  it  all  over 
everything  and  rooend  my  clothes.  I'm  a  reg'lar 
pest.  So  I  want  to  play  with  Sally  Dunkelberg. 


I  MEET  THE  SILENT  WOMAN         73 

She  knows  all  kinds  o'  riddles  and  games  and  all 
about  grand  ladies  and  gentlemen  and  she  wears 
shiny  shoes  and  her  hair  smells  just  like  roses,  and 
I  want  to  play  with  her  a  little  while — just  a  wee 
little  while." 

I  had  unburdened  my  soul.  The  above  words  are 
quoted  not  from  my  memory,  but  from  his,  which 
has  always  been  most  reliable.  I  remember  well  my 
thoughts  and  feelings  but  not  many  of  my  words  on 
a  day  so  distant. 

"Forward,  march !"  said  he  and  away  we  started 
for  the  home  of  the  Dunkelbergs.  The  village  in 
terested  me  immensely.  I  had  seen  it  only  twice 
before.  People  were  moving  about  in  the  streets. 
One  thing  I  did  not  fail  to  notice.  Every  man  we 
met  touched  his  hat  as  he  greeted  my  friend. 

"Good  morning,  Sile,"  some  said,  as  we  passed 
them,  or,  "How  are  you,  Comptroller?" 

It  was  a  square,  frame  house — that  of  the  Dunkel 
bergs — large  for  that  village,  and  had  a  big  door- 
yard  with  trees  in  it.  As  we  came  near  the  gate  I 
saw  Sally  Dunkelberg  playing  with  other  children 
among  the  trees.  Suddenly  I  was  afraid  and  began 
to  hang  back.  I  looked  down  at  my  bare  feet  and 
my  clothes,  both  of  which  were  dirty.  Sally  and 
her  friends  had  stopped  their  play  and  were  stand 
ing  in  a  group  looking  at  us.  I  heard  Sally  whisper : 


74        THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

"It's  that  Baynes  boy.    Don't  he  look  dirty?" 

I  stopped  and  withdrew  my  hand  from  that  of  my 
guide, 

"Come  on,  Bart,"  he  said. 

I  shook  my  head  and  stood  looking  over  at  that 
little,  hostile  tribe  near  me. 

"Go  and  play  with  them  while  I  step  into  the 
house,"  he  urged. 

Again  I  shook  my  head. 

"Well,  then,  you  wait  here  a  moment,"  said  my 
new-found  friend. 

He  left  me  and  I  sat  down  upon  the  ground, 
thoughtful  and  silent. 

He  went  to  the  children  and  kissed  Sally  and 
whispered  in  her  ear  and  passed  on  into  the  house. 
The  children  walked  over  to  me. 

"Hello,  Bart!"  said  Sally. 

"Hello!"  I  answered. 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  play  with  us  ?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

Some  of  them  began  to  whisper  and  laugh.  I  re 
member  how  beautiful  the  girls  looked  with  their 
flowing  hair  and  ribbons  and  pretty  dresses.  What 
happy  faces  they  had !  I  wonder  why  it  all  fright 
ened  and  distressed  me  so. 

In  a  moment  my  friend  came  out  with  Mrs. 
Dunkelberg,  who  kissed  me,  and  asked  me  to  tell 
how  I  happened  to  be  there. 


I  MEET  THE  SILENT  WOMAN         75 

"I  just  thought  I  would  come,"  I  said  as  I  twisted 
a  button  on  my  coat,  and  would  say  no  more  to  her. 

"Mr.  Wright,  you're  going  to  take  him  home,  are 
you?'*  Mrs.  Dunkelberg  asked. 

"Yes.  I'll  start  off  with  him  in  an  hour  or  so," 
said  my  friend.  "I  am  interested  in  this  boy  and  I 
want  to  see  his  aunt  and  uncle." 

"Let  him  stay  here  \vith  us  until  you're  ready 
to  go." 

"I  don't  want  to  stay  here,"  I  said,  seizing  my 
friend's  hand. 

"Well,  Sally,  you  go  down  to  the  office  and  stay 
with  Bart  until  they  go." 

"You'd  like  that  wouldn't  you?"  the  man  asked 
of  me. 

"I  don't  know,"  I  said. 

"That  means  yes,"  said  the  man. 

Sally  and  another  little  girl  came  with  us  and 
passing  a  store  I  held  back  to  look  at  many  beautiful 
things  in  a  big  window. 

"Is  there  anything  you'd  like  there,  Bart?"  the 
man  asked. 

"I  wisht  I  had  a  pair  o'  them  shiny  shoes  with 
buttons  on,"  I  answered  in  a  low,  confidential  tone, 
afraid  to  express,  openly,  a  wish  so  extravagant. 

"Come  right  in,"  he  said,  and  I  remember  that 
when  we  entered  the  store  I  could  hear  my  heart 
beating. 


76        THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

He  bought  a  pair  of  shoes  for  me  and  I  would 
have  them  on  at  once,  and  that  made  it  necessary 
for  him  to  buy  a  pair  of  socks  also.  After  the  shoes 
were  buttoned  on  my  feet  I  saw  little  of  Sally  Dunk- 
elberg  or  the  other  people  of  the  village,  my  eyes 
being  on  my  feet  most  of  the  time. 

The  man  took  us  into  his  office  and  told  us  to  sit 
down  until  he  could  write  a  letter. 

I  remember  how,  as  he  wrote,  I  stood  by  his  chair 
and  examined  the  glazed  brown  buttons  on  his  coat 
and  bit  one  of  them  to  see  how  hard  it  was,  while 
Sally  was  feeling  his  gray  hair  and  necktie.  He 
scratched  along  with  his  quill  pen  as  if  wholly  un 
aware  of  our  presence. 

Soon  a  horse  and  buggy  came  for  us  and  I  briefly 
answered  Sally's  good-by  before  the  man  drove 
away  with  me.  I  remember  telling  him  as  we  went 
on  over  the  rough  road,  between  fields  of  ripened 
grain,  of  my  watermelon  and  my  dog  and  my  little 
pet  hen. 

I  shall  not  try  to  describe  that  home  coming.  We 
found  Aunt  Deel  in  the  road  five  miles  from  home. 
She  had  been  calling  and  traveling  from  house  to 
house  most  of  the  night,  and  I  have  never  forgotten 
her  joy  at  seeing  me  and  her  tender  greeting.  She 
got  into  the  buggy  and  rode  home  with  us,  holding 
me  in  her  lap.  Uncle  Peabody  and  one  of  our 
neighbors  had  been  out  in  the  woods  all  night  with 


I  MEET  THE  SILENT  WOMAN         77 

pine  torches.  I  recall  how,  although  excited  by  my 
return,  he  took  off  his  hat  at  the  sight  of  my  new 
friend  and  said: 

"Mr.  Wright,  I  never  wished  that  I  lived  in  a 
palace  until  now." 

He  didn't  notice  me  until  I  held  up  both  feet  and 
called:  "Look  a'  there,  Uncle  Peabody." 

Then  he  came  and  took  me  out  of  the  buggy  and 
I  saw  the  tears  in  his  eyes  when  he  kissed  me. 

The  man  told  of  finding  me  on  his  little  veranda, 
and  I  told  of  my  ride  with  Dug  Draper,  after  which 
Uncle  Peabody  said: 

"I'm  goin'  to  put  in  your  hoss  and  feed  him, 
Comptroller." 

"And  I'm  goin'  to  cook  the  best  dinner  I  ever 
cooked  in  my  life,"  said  Aunt  Deel. 

I  knew  that  my  new  friend  must  be  even  greater 
than  the  Dunkelbergs,  for  there  was  a  special  ex 
travagance  in  their  tone  and  manner  toward  him 
which  I  did  not  fail  to  note.  His  courtesy  and  the 
distinction  of  his  address,  as  he  sat  at  our  table, 
were  not  lost  upon  me,  either.  During  the  meal  I 
heard  that  Dug  Draper  had  run  off  with  a  neigh 
bor's  horse  and  buggy  and  had  not  yet  returned. 
Aunt  Deel  said  that  he  had  taken  me  with  him  out 
of  spite,  and  that  he  would  probably  never  come 
back — a  suspicion  justified  by  the  facts  of  history. 

When  the  great  man  had  gone  Uncle  Peabody 


78         THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

took  me  in  his  lap  and  said  very  gently  and  with  a 
serious  look : 

"You  didn't  think  I  meant  it,  did  ye? — that  you 
would  have  to  go  'way  from  here  ?'* 

"I  don't  know,"  was  my  answer. 

"Course  I  didn't  mean  that.  I  just  wanted  ye  to 
see  that  it  wa'n't  goin'  to  do  for  you  to  keep  on 
tippin'  things  over  so." 

I  sat  telling  them  of  my  adventures  and  answer 
ing  questions,  flattered  by  their  tender  interest,  until 
milking  time.  I  thoroughly  enjoyed  all  that.  When 
I  rose  to  go  out  with  Uncle  Peabody,  Aunt  Deel 
demanded  my  shoes. 

"Take  'em  right  off,"  said  she.  "It  ain't  a  goin' 
to  do  to  wear  'em  common — no,  sir-ee!  They're 
for  meetin'  or  when  company  comes — ayes !" 

I  regretfully  took  off  the  shoes  and  gave  them  to 
her,  and  thereafter  the  shoes  were  guarded  as  care 
fully  as  the  butternut  trousers. 

That  evening  as  I  was  about  to  go  up-stairs  to 
bed,  Aunt  Deel  said  to  my  uncle : 

"Do  you  remember  what  ol'  Kate  wrote  down 
about  him  ?  This  is  his  first  peril  an'  he  has  met  his 
first  great  man  an'  I  can  see  that  Sile  Wright  is  kind 
o'  fond  o'  him." 

I  went  to  sleep  that  night  thinking  of  the  strange, 
old,  ragged,  silent  woman. 


CHAPTER  III 

WE  GO  TO  MEETING  AND  SEE  MR.  WRIGHT  AGAIN 

I  HAD  a  chill  that  night  and  in  the  weeks  thai 
followed  I  was  nearly  burned  up  with  lung 
fever.  Doctor  Clark  came  from  Canton  to  see 
me  every  other  day  for  a  time,  and  one  evening  Mr. 
Wright  came  with  him  and  watched  all  night  near 
my  bedside.  He  gave  me  medicine  every  hour,  and 
I  remember  how  gently  he  would  speak  and  raise 
my  head  when  he  came  with  the  spoon  and  the 
draft.  It  grieved  me  to  hear  him  say,  as  he  raised 
me  in  his  arms,  that  I  wasn't  bigger  than  "a  cock 
mosquito." 

I  would  lie  and  watch  him  as  he  put  a  stick  on  the 
fire  and  tiptoed  to  his  armchair  by  the  table,  on 
which  three  lighted  candles  were  burning.  Then  he 
would  adjust  his  spectacles,  pick  up  his  book,  and 
begin  to  read,  and  I  would  see  him  smile  or  frown 
or  laugh  until  I  wondered  what  was  between  the 
black  covers  of  the  book  to  move  him  so.  In  the 
morning  he  said  that  he  could  come  the  next  Tues 
day  night,  if  we  needed  him,  and  set  out  right  after 
breakfast,  in  the  dim  dawn  light,  to  walk  to  Canton. 
"Peabody  Baynes,"  said  my  Aunt  Deel  as  she 

79 


80         THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

stood  looking  out  of  the  window  at  Mr.  Wright, 
"that  is  one  of  the  grandest,  splendidest  men  that  I 
ever  see  or  heard  of.  He's  an  awful  smart  man,  an' 
a  day  o'  his  time  is  worth  more'n  a  month  of  our'n, 
but  he  comes  away  off  here  to  set  up  with  a  sick 
young  one  and  walks  back.  Does  beat  all — don't 
it?— ayes!" 

"If  any  one  needs  help  Sile  Wright  is  always  on 
hand,"  said  Uncle  Peabody. 

I  was  soon  out  of  bed  and  he  came  no  more  to  sit 
up  with  me. 

When  I  was  well  again  Aunt  Deel  said  one  day : 
"Peabody  Baynes,  I  ain't  heard  no  preachin'  since 
Mr.  Pangborn  died.  I  guess  we  better  go  down  to 
Canton  to  meetin'  some  Sunday.  If  there  ain't  no 
minister  Sile  Wright  always  reads  a  sermon,  if  he's 
home,  and  the  paper  says  he  don't  go  'way  for  a 
month  yit.  I  kind  o'  feel  the  need  of  a  good  sermon 
— ayes !" 

"All  right.  I'll  hitch  up  the  hosses  and  we'll  go. 
We  can  start  at  eight  o'clock  and  take  a  bite  with  us 
an'  git  back  here  by  three." 

"Could  I  wear  my  new  shoes  and  trousers?"  I 
asked  joyfully. 

"Ayes  I  guess  ye  can  if  you're  a  good  boy — 
ayes!"  said  Aunt  Deel. 

I  had  told  Aunt  Deel  what  Sally  had  said  of  my 
personal  appearance. 


WE  Go  TO  MEETING  81 

"Your  coat  is  good  enough  for  anybody — ayes !" 
said  she.  'Til  make  you  a  pair  o'  breeches  an'  then 
I  guess  you  won't  have  to  be  'shamed  no  more." 

She  had  spent  several  evenings  making  them  out 
of  an  old  gray  flannel  petticoat  of  hers  and  had  put 
two  pockets  in  them  of  which  I  was  very  proud. 
They  came  just  to  the  tops  of  my  shoes,  which 
pleased  me,  for  thereby  the  glory  of  my  new  shoes 
suffered  no  encroachment. 

The  next  Sunday  after  they  were  finished  we  had 
preaching  in  the  schoolhouse  and  I  was  eager  to  go 
and  wear  my  wonderful  trousers.  Uncle  Peabody 
said  that  he  didn't  know  whether  his  leg  would  hold 
out  or  not  "through  a  whole  meetin'."  His  left  leg 
was  lame  from  a  wrench  and  pained  him  if  he  sat 
long  in  one  position.  I  greatly  enjoyed  this  first 
public  exhibition  of  my  new  trousers.  I  remember 
praying  in  silence,  as  we  sat  down,  that  Uncle  Pea- 
body's  leg  would  hold  out.  Later,  when  the  long 
sermon  had  begun  to  weary  me,  I  prayed  that  it 
would  not. 

I  decided  that  meetings  were  not  a  successful 
form  of  entertainment.  Indeed,  Sunday  was  for 
me  a  lost  day.  It  was  filled  with  shaving  and  wash 
ing  and  reading  and  an  overwhelming  silence.  Uncle 
Peabody  always  shaved  after  breakfast  and  then  he 
would  sit  down  to  read  the  St.  Lawrence  Republi 
can.  Both  occupations  deprived  him  utterly  of  his 


82         THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

usefulness  as  an  uncle.  I  remember  that  I  regarded 
the  razor  and  the  Republican  as  my  worst  enemies. 
The  Republican  earned  my  keenest  dislike,  for  it 
always  put  my  uncle  to  sleep  and  presently  he  would 
stretch  out  on  the  lounge  and  begin  to  puff  and  snore 
and  then  Aunt  Deel  always  went  around  on  her  tip 
toes  and  said  sh-h-h !  She  spent  the  greater  part  of 
the  forenoon  in  her  room  washing  and  changing  her 
clothes  and  reading  the  Bible.  How  loudly  the  clock 
ticked  that  day !  How  defiantly  the  cock  crew !  It 
seemed  as  if  he  were  making  special  efforts  to  start 
up  the  life  of  the  farm.  How  shrill  were  the  tree 
crickets !  Often  Shep  and  I  would  steal  off  into  the 
back  lot  trying  to  scare  up  a  squirrel  and  I  would 
look  longingly  down  the  valley,  and  could  dimly  see 
the  roofs  of  houses  where  there  were  other  children. 
I  would  gladly  have  made  friends  with  the  Wills 
boy,  but  he  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  me,  and 
soon  his  people  moved  away.  My  uncle  said  that 
Mr.  Grimshaw  had  foreclosed  their  mortgage. 

The  fields  were  so  still  that  I  wondered  if  the 
grass  grew  on  Sunday.  The  laws  of  God  and  nature 
seemed  to  be  in  conflict,  for  our  livers  got  out  of 
order  and  some  one  of  us  always  had  a  headache  in 
the  afternoon.  It  was  apt  to  be  Uncle  Peabody,  as 
I  had  reason  to  know,  for  I  always  begged  him  to 
go  in  swimmin*  with  me  in  the  afternoon. 

It  was  a  beautiful  summer  morning  as  we  drove 


WE  Go  TO  MEETING  83 

down  the  hills  and  from  the  summit  of  the  last  high 
ridge  we  could  see  the  smoke  of  a  steamer  looming 
over  the  St.  Lawrence  and  the  big  buildings  of  Can 
ton  on  the  distant  flats  below  us.  My  heart  beat  fast 
when  I  reflected  that  I  should  soon  see  Mr.  Wright 
and  the  Dunkelbergs.  I  had  lost  a  little  of  my  in 
terest  in  Sally.  Still  I  felt  sure  that  when  she  saw 
my  new  breeches  she  would  conclude  that  I  was  a 
person  not  to  be  trifled  with. 

When  we  got  to  Canton  people  were  flocking  to 
the  big  stone  Presbyterian  Church.  We  drove  our 
horses  under  the  shed  of  the  tavern  and  Uncle  Pea- 
body  brought  them  water  from  the  pump  and  fed 
them,  out  of  our  own  bag  under  the  buggy  seat, 
before  we  went  to  the  church. 

It  was  what  they  called  a  "deacon  meeting/'  I 
remember  that  Mr.  Wright  read  from  the  Scriptures, 
and  having  explained  that  there  was  no  minister  in 
the  village,  read  one  of  Mr.  Edwards'  sermons,  in 
the  course  of  which  I  went  to  sleep  on  the  arm  of 
my  aunt.  She  awoke  me  when  the  service  had 
ended,  and  \vhispered : 

"Come,  we're  goin*  down  to  speak  to  Mr. 
Wright." 

We  saw  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Horace  Dunkelberg  in  the 
aisle,  who  said  that  they  would  wait  for  us  outside 
the  church. 

I  remember  that  Mr.  Wright  kissed  me  and  said : 


84        THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

"Hello !  Here's  my  boy  in  a  new  pair  o'  trousers !" 

"Put  yer  hand  in  there,"  I  said  proudly,  as  I  took 
my  own  out  of  one  of  my  pockets,  and  pointed  the 
way. 

He  did  not  accept  the  invitation,  but  laughed 
heartily  and  gave  me  a  little  hug. 

When  we  went  out  of  the  church  there  stood  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Horace  Dunkelberg,  and  Sally  and  some 
other  children.  It  was  a  tragic  moment  for  me 
when  Sally  laughed  and  ran  behind  her  mother. 
Still  worse  was  it  when  a  couple  of  boys  ran  away 
crying,  "Look  at  the  breeches !" 

I  looked  down  at  my  breeches  and  wondered  what 
was  wrong  with  them.  They  seemed  very  splendid 
to  me  and  yet  I  saw  at  once  that  they  were  not  popu^ 
lar.  I  went  close  to  my  Aunt  Deel  and  partly  hid 
myself  in  her  cloak.  I  heard  Mrs.  Dunkelberg  say : 

"Of  course  you'll  come  to  dinner  with  us?" 

For  a  second  my  hopes  leaped  high.  I  was  hun 
gry  and  visions  of  jelly  cake  and  preserves  rose  be 
fore  me.  Of  course  there  were  the  trousers,  but 
perhaps  Sally  would  get  used  to  the  trousers  and  ask 
me  to  play  with  her. 

"Thank  ye,  but  we've  got  a  good  ways  to  go  and 
we  fetched  a  bite  with  us — ayes !"  said  Aunt  Deel. 

Eagerly  I  awaited  an  invitation  from  the  great 
Mrs.  Dunkelberg  that  should  be  decisively  urgent, 
but  she  only  said : 


WE  Go  TO  MEETING  85 

"I'm  very  sorry  you  can't  stay." 

My  hopes  fell  like  bricks  and  vanished  like 
bubbles. 

The  Dunkelbergs  left  us  with  pleasant  words. 
They  had  asked  me  to  shake  hands  with  Sally,  but 
I  had  clung  to  my  aunt's  cloak  and  firmly  refused  to 
make  any  advances.  Slowly  and  without  a  word  we 
walked  across  the  park  toward  the  tavern  sheds. 
Hot  tears  were  flowing  down  my  cheeks — silent 
tears !  for  I  did  not  wish  to  explain  them.  Furtively 
I  brushed  them  away  with  my  hand.  The  odor  of 
frying  beef  steak  came  out  of  the  open  doors  of  the 
tavern.  It  was  more  than  I  could  stand.  I  hadn't 
tasted  fresh  meat  since  Uncle  Peabody  had  killed  a 
deer  in  midsummer.  He  gave  me  a  look  of  under 
standing,  but  said  nothing  for  a  minute.  Then  he 
proposed : 

"Mebbe  we  better  git  dinner  here?" 

Aunt  Deel  hesitated  at  the  edge  of  the  stable  yard, 
surrounded  as  she  was  by  the  aroma  of  the  flesh- 
pots,  then : 

"I  guess  we  better  go  right  home  and  save  our 
money,  Peabody — ayes!"  said  she.  "We  told  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Horace  Dunkelberg  that  we  was  goin* 
home  and  they'd  think  we  was  liars." 

"We  orto  have  gone  with  'em,"  said  Uncle  Pea- 
body  as  he  unhitched  the  horses. 

"Well,  Peabody  Baynes,  they  didn't  appear  to  be 


86         THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

very  anxious  to  have  us,"  Aunt  Deel  answered  with 
a  sigh. 

We  had  started  away  up  the  South  road  when,  to 
my  surprise,  Aunt  Deel  mildly  attacked  the  Dunkel- 
bergs. 

"These  here  village  folks  like  to  be  waited  on — 
ayes! — an'  they're  awful  anxious  you  should  come 
to  see  'em  when  ye  can't — ayes! — but  when  ye  git 
to  the  village  they  ain't  nigh  so  anxious — no  they 
ain't!" 

Uncle  Peabody  made  no  answer,  but  sat  looking 
forward  thoughtfully  and  tapping  the  dashboard 
with  his  whipstock,  and  we  rode  on  in  a  silence 
broken  only  by  the  creak  of  the  evener  and  the 
sound  of  the  horses'  hoofs  in  the  sand. 

In  the  middle  of  the  great  cedar  swamp  near 
Little  River  Aunt  Deel  got  out  the  lunch  basket  and 
I  sat  down  on  the  buggy  bottom  between  their  legs 
and  leaning  against  the  dash.  So  disposed  we  ate 
our  luncheon  of  fried  cakes  and  bread  and  butter 
and  maple  sugar  and  cheese.  The  road  was  a 
straight  alley  through  the  evergreen  forest,  and  its 
grateful  shadow  covered  us.  When  we  had  come 
out  into  the  hot  sunlight  by  the  Hale  farm  both  my 
aunt  and  uncle  complained  of  headache.  What  an 
efficient  cure  for  good  health  were  the  doughnuts 
and  cheese  and  sugar,  especially  if  they  were  mixed 


WE  Go  TO  MEETING  87 

with  the  idleness  of  a  Sunday.  I  had  a  headache 
also  and  soon  fell  asleep. 

The  sun  was  low  when  they  awoke  me  in  our 
dooryard. 

"Hope  it'll  be  some  time  'fore  ye  feel  the  need  of 
another  sermon,"  said  Uncle  Peabody  as  Aunt  Deel 
got  out  of  the  buggy.  "I  ain't  felt  so  wicked  in 
years." 

I  was  so  sick  that  Aunt  Deel  put  me  to  bed  and 
said  that  she  would  feed  the  pigs  and  the  chickens. 
Sick  as  he  was,  Uncle  Peabody  had  to  milk  the  cows. 
How  relentless  were  the  cows ! 

I  soon  discovered  that  the  Dunkelbergs  had  fallen 
from  their  high  estate  in  our  home  and  that  Silas 
Wright,  Jr.,  had  taken  their  place  in  the  conversa 
tion  of  Aunt  Deel. 


CHAPTER  IV 

OUR  LITTLE  STRANGE  COMPANION 

IN  the  pathless  forest  we  had  a  little  companion 
that  always  knew  its  way.  No  matter  how 
strange  and  remote  the  place  might  be  or  how 
black  the  night  its  tiny  finger  always  pointed  in  the 
same  direction.  By  the  light  of  the  torch  at  mid 
night,  in  blinding  darkness,  I  have  seen  it  sway  and 
settle  toward  its  beloved  goal.  It  seemed  to  be 
thinking  of  some  far  country  which  it  desired  to 
recommend  to  us. 

It  seemed  to  say:  "Look!  I  know  not  which 
way  is  yours,  but  this — this  is  my  way  and  all  the 
little  cross  roads  lead  off  it." 

What  a  wonderful  wisdom  it  had!  I  remember 
it  excited  a  feeling  of  awe  in  me  as  if  it  were  a 
spirit  and  not  a  tool. 

The  reader  will  have  observed  that  my  uncle 
spoke  of  the  compass  as  if  it  directed  plant  and  ani 
mal  in  achieving  their  purposes.  From  the  begin 
ning  in  the  land  of  my  birth  it  had  been  a  thing  as 
familiar  as  the  dial  and  as  necessary.  The  farms 
along  our  road  were  only  stumpy  recesses  in  the 

88 


OUR  LITTLE  STRANGE  COMPANION      89 

wilderness,  with  irregular  curving  outlines  of  thick 
timber — beech  and  birch  and  maple  and  balsam  and 
spruce  and  pine  and  tamarack — forever  whispering 
of  the  unconquered  lands  that  rolled  in  great  billowy 
ridges  to  the  far  horizon. 

We  were  surrounded  by  the  gloom  and  mystery 
of  the  forest.  If  one  left  the  road  or  trail  for  even 
a  short  walk  he  needed  a  compass  to  guide  him. 
That  little  brass  box  with  its  needle,  swaying  and 
seeming  to  quiver  with  excitement  as  it  felt  its  way 
to  the  north  side  of  the  circle  and  pointed  unerr 
ingly  at  last  toward  its  favorite  star,  filled  me  with 
wonder. 

"Why  does  it  point  toward  the  north  star?"  I 
used  to  ask. 

'That's  a  secret,"  said  Uncle  Peabody.  "I 
wouldn't  wonder  if  the  gate  o'  heaven  was  up  there. 
Maybe  it's  a  light  in  God's  winder.  Who  knows  ?  I 
kind  o'  mistrust  it's  the  direction  we're  all  goin'  in." 

"You  talk  like  one  o'  them  Universalists,"  said 
Aunt  Deel.  "They're  gettin'  thick  as  flies  around 
here." 

"Wai,  I  kind  o*  believe — "  he  paused  at  the  edge 
of  what  may  have  been  a  dangerous  opinion, 

I  shook  the  box  and  the  needle  swung  and  quiv 
ered  back  and  forth  and  settled  with  its  point  in  the 
north  again.  Oh,  what  a  mystery!  My  eyes  grew 
big  at  the  thought  of  it. 


90        THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

"Do  folks  take  compasses  with  'em  when  they 
die?"  I  asked. 

"No,  they  don't  need  'em  then,"  said  Uncle  Pea- 
body.  "Everybody  has  a  kind  of  a  compass  in  his 
own  heart — same  as  watermelons  and  chickens  have. 
It  shows  us  the  way  to  be  useful,  and  I  guess  the 
way  o'  usefulness  is  the  way  to  heaven  every  time." 

"An'  the  way  o'  uselessness  is  the  way  to  hell," 
Aunt  Deel  added. 

One  evening  in  the  early  summer  the  great  Silas 
Wright  had  come  to  our  house  from  the  village  of 
Russell,  where  he  had  been  training  a  company  of 
militia. 

I  remember  that  as  he  entered  our  door  he  spoke 
in  this  fashion:  "Baynes,  le's  go  fishing.  All  the 
way  down  the  road  I've  heard  the  call  o'  the  brooks, 
I  stopped  on  the  Dingley  Bridge  and  looked  down 
at  the  water.  The  trout  were  jumping  so  I  guess 
they  must  'a'  got  sunburnt  and  freckled  and  sore.  I 
can't  stand  too  much  o'  that  kind  o'  thing.  It  riles 
me.  I  heard,  long  ago,  that  you  were  a  first-class 
fisherman,  so  I  cut  across  lots  and  here  I  am." 

His  vivid  words  touched  my  imagination  and  I 
have  often  recalled  them. 

"Well,  now  by  mighty!  I—"  Uncle  Peabody 
drew  the  rein  upon  his  imagination  at  the  very  brink 
of  some  great  extravagance  and  after  a  moment's 
pause  added:  "We'll  start  out  bright  an'  early  in 


OUR  LITTLE  STRANGE  COMPANION      91 

the  mornin'  an'  go  up  an'  git  Bill  Seaver.  He's  got 
a  camp  on  the  Middle  Branch,  an'  he  can  cook  al 
most  as  good  as  my  sister." 

"Is  your  spring's  work  done?" 

"All  done,  an'  I  was  kind  o'  thinkin',"  said  Uncle 
Peabody  with  a  little  shake  of  his  head.  He  didn't 
say  of  what  he  had  been  thinking,  that  being  un 
necessary. 

"Bart,  are  you  with  us  ?"  said  Mr.  Wright  as  he 
gave  me  a  playful  poke  with  his  hand. 

"May  I  go?"  I  asked  my  uncle. 

"I  wouldn't  wonder — go  an'  ask  yer  aunt,"  said 
Uncle  Peabody. 

My  soul  was  afire  with  eagerness.  My  feet  shook 
the  floor  and  I  tipped  over  a  chair  in  my  hurry  to 
get  to  the  kitchen,  whither  my  aunt  had  gone  soon 
after  the  appearance  of  our  guest.  She  was  getting 
supper  for  Mr.  Wright. 

"Aunt  Deel,  I'm  goin'  fishin',"  I  said. 

"Fishin' !    I  guess  not — ayes  I  do,"  she  answered. 

It  was  more  than  I  could  stand.  A  roar  of  dis 
tress  and  disappointment  came  from  my  lips. 

Uncle  Peabody  hurried  into  the  kitchen. 

"The  Comptroller  wants  him  to  go,"  said  he. 

"He  does?"  she  repeated  as  she  stood  with  her 
hands  on  her  hips  looking  up  at  her  brother. 

"He  likes  Bart  and  wants  to  take  him  along." 

"Wai,  then,  you'll  have  to  be  awful  careful  of 


92         THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

him/'  said  Aunt  Deel.  "I'm  'f raid  he'll  plague  ye 
—ayes!" 

"No,  he  won't — we'll  love  to  have  him." 

"Wai,  I  guess  you  could  git  Mary  Billings  to 
come  over  and  stay  with  me  an'  help  with  the  chores 
— ayes,  I  wouldn't  wonder !" 

I  could  contain  my  joy  no  longer,  but  ran  into  the 
other  room  on  tiptoe  and  announced  excitedly  that 
I  was  going.  Then  I  rushed  out  of  the  open  door 
and  rolled  and  tumbled  in  the  growing  grass,  with 
the  dog  barking  at  my  side.  In  such  times  of  joyful 
excitement  I  always  rolled  and  tumbled  in  the  grass. 
It  was  my  way  of  expressing  inexpressible  delight. 

I  felt  sorry  for  the  dog.  Poor  fellow!  He 
couldn't  go  fishing.  He  had  to  stay  home  always. 
I  felt  sorry  for  the  house  and  the  dooryard  and  the 
cows  and  the  grindstone  and  Aunt  Deel.  The  glow 
of  the  candles  and  the  odor  of  ham  and  eggs  drew 
me  into  the  house.  Wistfully  I  watched  the  great 
man  as  he  ate  his  supper.  I  was  always  hungry 
those  days.  Mr.  Wright  asked  me  to  have  an  egg, 
but  I  shook  my  head  and  said  "No,  thank  you"  with 
sublime  self-denial.  At  the  first  hint  from  Aunt 
Deel  I  took  my  candle  and  went  up  to  bed. 

"I  ain't  afraid  o'  bears,"  I  heard  myself  whisper 
ing  as  I  undressed.  I  whispered  a  good  deal  as  my 
imagination  ran  away  into  the  near  future. 

Soon  I  blew  out  my  candle  and  got  into  bed.    The 


OUE  LITTLE  STRANGE  COMPANION      93 

door  was  open  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  I  could  see 
the  light  and  hear  them  talking.  It  had  been  more 
than  a  year  since  Uncle  Peabody  had  promised  to 
take  me  into  the  woods  fishing,  but  most  of  our  joys 
were  enriched  by  long  anticipation  filled  with  talk 
and  fancy. 

I  lay  planning  my  behavior  in  the  woods.  It  was 
to  be  helpful  and  polite  and  generally  designed  to 
show  that  I  could  be  a  man  among  men.  I  lay  a 
long  time  whispering  over  details.  There  was  to  be 
no  crying,  even  if  I  did  get  hurt  a  little  once  in  a 
while.  Men  never  cried.  Only  babies  cried.  I 
could  hear  Mr.  Wright  talking  about  Bucktails  and 
Hunkers  below  stairs  and  I  could  hear  the  peepers 
down  in  the  marsh. 

Peepers  and  men  who  talked  politics  were  alike  to 
me  those  days.  They  were  beyond  my  understand 
ing  and  generally  put  me  to  sleep — especially  the 
peepers.  In  my  childhood  the  peepers  were  the 
bells  of  dream-land  calling  me  to  rest.  The  sweet 
sound  no  sooner  caught  my  ear  than  my  thoughts 
began  to  steal  away  on  tiptoe  and  in  a  moment  the 
house  of  my  brain  was  silent  and  deserted,  and 
thereafter,  for  a  time,  only  fairy  feet  came  into  it. 
So  even  those  happy  thoughts  of  a  joyous  holiday 
soon  left  me  and  I  slept. 

I  was  awakened  by  a  cool,  gentle  hand  on  my 
brow.  I  opened  my  eyes  and  saw  the  homely  and 


94        THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

beloved  face  of  Uncle  Peabody  smiling  down  at  me. 
What  a  face  it  was!  It  welcomed  me,  always,  at 
the  gates  of  the  morning  and  I  saw  it  in  the  glow  of 
the  candle  at  night  as  I  set  out  on  my  lonely,  dreaded 
voyage  into  dream-land.  Do  you  wonder  that  I  stop 
a  moment  and  wipe  my  glasses  when  I  think  of  it? 

"Hello,  Bart!"  said  he.     "It's  to-morrer." 

I  sat  up.  The  delicious  odor  of  frying  ham  was 
in  the  air.  The  glow  of  the  morning  sunlight  was 
on  the  meadows. 

"Come  on,  ol'  friend !  By  mighty !  We're  goin' 
to — "  said  Uncle  Peabody. 

Happy  thoughts  came  rushing  into  my  brain 
again.  What  a  tumult !  I  leaped  out  of  bed. 

"I'll  be  ready  in  a  minute,  Uncle  Peabody,"  I  said 
as,  yawning,  I  drew  on  my  trousers. 

"Don't  tear  yer  socks,"  he  cautioned  as  I  lost  pa 
tience  with  their  unsympathetic  behavior. 

He  helped  me  with  my  boots,  which  were  rather 
tight,  and  I  flew  down-stairs  with  my  coat  half  on 
and  ran  for  the  wash-basin  just  outside  the  kitchen 
door. 

"Hello,  Bart!  If  the  fish  don't  bite  to-day  they 
ought  to  be  ashamed  o'  themselves,"  said  Mr. 
Wright,  who  stood  in  the  dooryard  in  an  old  suit 
of  clothes  which  belonged  to  Uncle  Peabody. 

The  sun  had  just  risen  over  the  distant  tree-tops 


OUR  LITTLE  STRAXGE  COMPANION      95 

and  the  dew  in  the  meadow  grass  glowed  like  a  net 
of  silver  and  the  air  was  chilly.  The  chores  were 
done.  Aunt  Deel  appeared  in  the  open  door  as  I  was 
wiping  my  face  and  hands  and  said  in  her  genial, 
company  voice : 

"Breakfast  is  ready." 

Aunt  Deel  never  shortened  her  words  when  com 
pany  was  there.  Her  respect  was  always  properly 
divided  between  her  guest  and  the  English  language. 

How  delicious  were  the  ham,  smoked  in  our  own 
barrels,  and  the  eggs  fried  in  its  fat  and  the  baked 
potatoes  and  milk  gravy  and  the  buckwheat  cakes 
and  maple  syrup,  and  how  we  ate  of  them!  Two 
big  pack  baskets  stood  by  the  window  filled  with 
provisions  and  blankets,  and  the  black  bottom  of 
Uncle  Peabody's  spider  was  on  the  top  of  one  of 
them,  with  its  handle  reaching  down  into  the  depths 
of  the  basket.  The  musket  and  the  powder  horn 
had  been  taken  down  from  the  wall  and  the  former 
leaned  on  the  window-sill. 

"If  we  see  a  deer  we  ain't  goin'  to  let  him  bite  us," 
said  Uncle  Peabody. 

Aunt  Deel  kept  nudging  me  under  the  table  and 
giving  me  sharp  looks  to  remind  me  of  my  manners, 
for  now  it  seemed  as  if  a  time  had  come  when  eat 
ing  was  a  necessary  evil  to  be  got  through  with  as 
soon  as  possible.  Even  Uncle  Peabody  tapped  his 


96        THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

cup  lightly  with  his  teaspoon,  a  familiar  signal  of 
his  by  which  he  indicated  that  I  was  to  put  on  the 
brakes. 

To  Aunt  Deel  men- folks  were  a  careless,  irre 
sponsible  and  mischievous  lot  who  had  to  be  looked 
after  all  the  time  or  there  was  no  telling  what  would 
happen  to  them.  She  slipped  some  extra  pairs  of 
socks  and  a  bottle  of  turpentine  into  the  pack  bas 
ket  and  told  us  what  we  were  to  do  if  we  got  wet 
feet  or  sore  throats  or  stomach  ache. 

Aunt  Deel  kissed  me  lightly  on  the  cheek  with  a 
look  that  seemed  to  say,  "There,  I've  done  it  at  last," 
and  gave  me  a  little  poke  with  her  hand  (I  remem 
ber  thinking  what  an  extravagant  display  of  affec 
tion  it  was)  and  many  cautions  before  I  got  into 
the  wagon  with  Mr.  Wright,  and  my  uncle.  We 
drove  up  the  hills  and  I  heard  little  that  the  men 
said  for  my  thoughts  were  busy.  We  arrived  at  the 
cabin  of  Bill  Seaver  that  stood  on  the  river  bank 
just  above  Rainbow  Falls.  Bill  stood  in  his  door- 
yard  and  greeted  us  with  a  loud  "Hello,  there  I" 

"Want  to  go  fishin'  ?"  Uncle  Peabody  called. 

"You  bet  I  do.  Gosh !  I  ain't  had  no  fun  since 
I  went  to  Joe  Brown's  funeral  an'  that  day  I  en 
joyed  myself — damned  if  I  didn't!  Want  to  go  up 
the  river?"  ' 

"We  thought  we'd  go  up  to  your  camp  and  fish  a 
day  ©r  two." 


OUR  LITTLE  STBANGE  COMPANION      97 

"All  right !  We'll  hitch  in  the  hosses.  My  wife'll 
take  care  of  'em  'til  we  git  back.  Say  it  looks  as 
fishy  as  hell,  don't  it?" 

"This  is  Mr.  Silas  Wright— the  Comptroller/' 
said  Uncle  Peabody. 

"It  is !  Gosh  almighty !  I  ought  to  have  knowed 
it,"  said  Bill  Seaver,  his  tone  and  manner  having 
changed  like  magic  to  those  of  awed  respect.  "I 
see  ye  in  court  one  day  years  ago.  If  I'd  knowed 
'twas  you  I  wouldn't  'a'  swore  as  I  did."  The  men 
began  laughing  and  then  he  added :  "Damned  if  I 
would!" 

"It  won't  hurt  me  any — the  boy  is  the  one,"  said 
Mr.  Wright  as  he  took  my  hand  and  strolled  up  the 
river  bank  with  me.  I  rather  feared  and  dreaded 
those  big  roaring  men  like  Bill  Seaver. 

The  horses  were  hitched  in  and  the  canoes  washed 
out.  Then  we  all  turned  to  and  dug  some  angle 
worms.  The  poles  were  brought — lines,  hooks  and 
sinkers  were  made  ready  and  in  an  hour  or  so  we 
were  on  our  way  up  the  river,  Mr.  Wright  and  I 
and  Uncle  Peabody  being  in  one  of  the  canoes,  the 
latter  working  the  paddle. 

I  remember  how,  as  we  went  along,  Mr.  Wright 
explained  the  fundamental  theory  of  his  politics.  I 
gave  strict  attention  because  of  my  pride  in  the  fact 
that  he  included  me  in  the  illustration  of  his  point. 
This  in  substance  is  what  he  said,  for  I  can  not  pre- 


08        THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

tend  to  quote  his  words  with  precision  although  I 
think  they  vary  little  from  his  own,  for  here  before 
me  is  the  composition  entitled  "The  Comptroller," 
which  I  wrote  two  years  later  and  read  at  a  lyceum 
in  the  district  schoolhouse. 

"We  are  a  fishing  party.  There  are  four  of  us 
who  have  come  together  with  one  purpose — that  of 
catching  fish  and  having  a  good  time.  We  have 
elected  Bill  guide  because  he  knows  the  river  and  the 
woods  and  the  fish  better  than  we  do.  It's  Bill's 
duty  to  give  us  the  benefit  of  his  knowledge,  and 
to  take  us  to  and  from  camp  and  out  of  the  woods 
at  our  pleasure  and  contribute  in  all  reasonable  ways 
to  our  comfort.  He  is  the  servant  of  his  party. 
Now  if  Bill,  having  approved  our  aim  and  accepted 
the  job  from  us,  were  to  try  to  force  a  new  aim  upon 
the  party  and  insist  that  we  should  all  join  him  in 
the  sport  of  catching  butterflies,  we  would  soon 
break  up.  If  we  could  agree  on  the  butterfly  pro 
gram  that  would  be  one  thing,  but  if  we  held  to  our 
plan  and  Bill  stood  out,  he  would  be  a  traitor  to  his 
party  and  a  fellow  of  very  bad  manners.  As  long 
as  the  aims  of  my  party  are,  in  the  main,  right, 
I  believe  its  commands  are  sacred.  Always  in  our 
country  the  will  of  the  greatest  number  ought  to 
prevail — right  or  wrong.  It  has  a  right  even  to  make 
mistakes,  for  through  them  it  should  learn  wisdom 


OUB,  LITTLE  STBAXGE  COMPANION      99 

and  gradually  adjust  itself  to  the  will  of  its  greatest 
leaders." 

It  is  remarkable  that  the  great  commoner  should 
have  made  himself  understood  by  a  boy  of  eight, 
but  in  so  doing  he  exemplified  the  gift  that  raised 
him  above  all  the  men  I  have  met — that  of  throwing 
light  into  dark  places  so  that  all  could  see  the  truth 
that  was  hidden  there. 

Now  and  then  we  came  to  noisy  water  hills  slant 
ing  far  back  through  rocky  timbered  gorges,  or  lit 
tle  foamy  stainvays  in  the  river  leading  up  to  higher 
levels.  The  men  carried  the  canoes  around  these 
places  while  I  followed  gathering  wild  flowers  and 
watching  the  red-winged  black  birds  that  flew  above 
us  calling  hoarsely  across  the  open  spaces.  Now  and 
then,  a  roaring  veering  cloud  of  pigeons  passed  in 
the  upper  air.  The  breath  of  the  river  \vas  sweet 
with  the  fragrance  of  pine  and  balsam. 

We  were  going  around  a  bend  when  we  heard  the 
voice  of  Bill  shouting  just  above  us.  He  had  run 
the  bow  of  his  canoe  on  a  gravel  beach  just  below 
a  little  waterfall  and  a  great  trout  was  flopping  and 
tumbling  about  in  the  grass  beside  him. 

"Yip !"  he  shouted  as  he  held  up  the  radiant,  strug 
gling  fish  that  reached  from  his  chin  to  his  belt. 
"I  tell  ye  boys  they're  goin'  to  be  sassy  as  the  devil. 
Jump  out  an'  go  to  work  here." 


100      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

With  what  emotions  I  leaped  out  upon  the  gravel 
and  watched  the  fishing!  A  new  expression  came 
into  the  faces  of  the  men.  Their  mouths  opened. 
There  was  a  curious  squint  in  their  eyes.  Their 
hands  trembled  as  they  baited  their  hooks.  The 
song  of  the  river,  tumbling  down  a  rocky  slant,  filled 
the  air.  I  saw  the  first  bite.  How  the  pole  bent! 
How  the  line  hissed  as  it  went  rushing  through  the 
Water  out  among  the  spinning  bubbles !  What  a 
Splash  as  the  big  fish  in  his  coat  of  many  colors 
broke  through  the  ripples  and  rose  aloft  and  fell  at 
my  feet  throwing  a  spray  all  over  me  as  he  came 
down !  That  was  the  way  they  fished  in  those  days. 
They  angled  with  a  stout  pole  of  seasoned  tamarack 
and  no  reel,  and  catching  a  fish  was  like  breaking 
a  colt  to  halter. 

While  he  was  fishing  Mr.  Wright  slipped  off  the 
rock  he  stood  on  and  sank  shoulder  deep  in  the 
water.  I  ran  and  held  out  my  hand  crying  loudly. 
Uncle  Peabody  helped  him  ashore  with  his  pole. 
Tears  were  flowing  down  my  cheeks  while  I  stood 
sobbing  in  a  kind  of  juvenile  hysterics. 

"What's  the  matter  ?"  Uncle  Peabody  demanded. 

"I  was  'fraid — Mr.  Wright — was  goin'  to  be 
drownded,"  I  managed  to  say. 

The  Comptroller  shook  his  arms  and  came  and 
knelt  by  my  side  and  kissed  me. 
!     -"Gpd  bless  the  dear  boy!"  he  exclaimed.     "It's 


OUB,  LITTLE  STRANGE  COM?ANIOX    1Q11 

a  long  time  since  any  one  cried  for  me.  I  love  you, 
Bart." 

When  Bill  swore  after  that  the  Comptroller  raised 
his  hand  and  shook  his  head  and  uttered  a  protest 
ing  hiss. 

We  got  a  dozen  trout  before  we  resumed  our 
journey  and  reached  camp  soon  after  one  o'clock 
very  hungry.  It  was  a  rude  bark  lean-to,  and  we 
soon  made  a  roaring  fire  in  front  of  it.  What  a 
dinner  we  had!  the  bacon  and  the  fish  fried  in  its 
fat  and  the  boiled  potatoes  and  the  flapjacks  and 
maple  sugar!  All  through  my  long  life  I  have 
sought  in  vain  for  a  dinner  like  it.  I  helped  with 
the  \vashing  of  the  dishes  and,  that  done,  Bill  made 
a  back  for  his  fire  of  green  beech  logs,  placed  one 
upon  the  other  and  held  in  place  by  stakes  driven  in 
the  ground.  By  and  by  Mr.  Wright  asked  me  if 
I  would  like  to  walk  over  to  Alder  Brook  with  him. 

"The  fish  are  smaller  there  and  I  guess  you  could 
catch  'em,"  said  he. 

The  invitation  filled  me  with  joy  and  we  set  out 
together  through  the  thick  woods.  The  leaves 
were  just  come  and  their  vivid,  glossy  green 
sprinkled  out  in  the  foliage  of  the  little  beeches  and 
the  woods  smelt  of  new  things.  The  trail  was 
overgrown  and  great  trees  had  fallen  into  it  and 
wre  had  to  pick  our  way  around  them.  The  Comp 
troller  carried  me  on  his  back  over  the  wet  places 


102      T.HE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 


and  we  found  the  brook  at  last  and  he  baited  my 
hook  while  I  caught  our  basket  nearly  full  of  lit 
tle  trout.  Coming  back  we  lost  the  trail  and  pres 
ently  the  Comptroller  stopped  and  said  : 

"Bart,  I'm  'fraid  we're  going  wrong.  Let's  sit 
down  here  and  take  a  look  at  the  compass." 

He  took  out  his  compass  and  I  stood  by  his  knee 
and  watched  the  quivering  needle. 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  went  on.  "We  just  turned  around 
up  there  on  the  hill  and  started  for  Alder  Brook 
again." 

As  we  went  on  he  added  :  "When  you're  in  doubt 
look  at  the  compass.  It  always  knows  its  way." 

"How  does  it  know?"  I  asked. 

"It  couldn't  tell  ye  how  and  I  couldn't.  There 
are  lots  o'  things  in  the  world  that  nobody  can  un 
derstand." 

The  needle  now  pointed  toward  its  favorite  star. 

"My  uncle  says  that  everything  and  everybody 
has  compasses  in  'em  to  show  'em  the  way  to  go,"  I 
remarked  thoughtfully. 

"He's  right,"  said  the  Comptroller.  "I'm  glad 
you  told  me  for  I'd  never  thought  of  it.  Every  man 
has  a  compass  in  his  heart  to  tell  which  way  is  right. 
I  shall  always  remember  that,  partner." 

He  gave  me  a  little  hug  as  we  sat  together  and 
I  wondered  what  a  partner  might  be,  for  the  word 
was  new  to  me. 


OUR  LITTLE  STRANGE  COMPANION     103 

"What's  partner?"  I  asked. 

"Somebody  you  like  to  have  with  you." 

Always  when  we  were  together  after  that  hour 
the  great  man  called  me  "partner." 

We  neared  camp  in  the  last  light  of  the  day.  Mr. 
Wright  stopped  to  clean  our  fish  at  a  little  murmur 
ing  brook  and  I  ran  on  ahead  for  I  could  hear  the 
crackling  of  the  camp-fire  and  the  voice  of  Bill 
Seaver.  I  thought  in  whispers  what  I  should  say 
to  my  Uncle  Peabody  and  they  were  brave  words. 
I  was  close  upon  the  rear  of  the  camp  when  I  checked 
my  eager  pace  and  approached  on  tiptoe.  I  was 
going  to  surprise  and  frighten  my  uncle  and  then 
embrace  him.  Suddenly  my  heart  stood  still,  for  I 
heard  him  saying  words  fit  only  for  the  tongue  of  a 
Dug  Draper  or  a  Charley  Boyce — the  meanest  boy 
in  school — low,  wicked  words  which  Uncle  Peabody 
himself  had  taught  me  to  fear  and  despise.  My 
Uncle  Peabody!  Once  I  heard  a  man  telling  of  a 
doomful  hour  in  which  his  fortune  won  by  years  of 
hard  work,  broke  and  vanished  like  a  bubble.  The 
dismay  he  spoke  of  reminded  me  of  my  own  that 
day.  My  Aunt  Deel  had  told  me  that  the  devil  used 
bad  words  to  tempt  his  victims  into  a  lake  of  fire 
where  they  sizzled  and  smoked  and  yelled  forever 
and  felt  worse,  every  minute,  than  one  sitting  on  a 
hot  griddle.  To  save  me  from  such  a  fate  my  uncle 
had  nearly  blistered  me  with  his  slipper.  How  was, 


104»      THE  L'IGHT  IN  THE  CLEANING 

I  to  save  him?  I  stood  still  for  a  moment  of  con 
fusion  and  anxiety,  with  my  hand  over  my  mouth, 
while  a  strange  sickness  came  upon  me.  A  great 
cold  wave  had  swept  in  off  the  uncharted  seas  and 
flooded  my  little  beach  and  covered  it  with  wreck 
age.  What  was  I  to  do?  I  knew  that  I  couldn't 
punish  him.  I  couldn't  bear  to  speak  to  him  even, 
so  I  turned  and  walked  slowly  away. 

My  dear,  careless  old  uncle  was  in  great  danger. 
As  I  think  of  it  now,  what  a  whited  sepulchre  he 
had  become  in  a  moment !  Had  I  better  consult  Mr. 
.Wright?  No.  My  pride  in  my  uncle  and  my  love 
for  him  would  not  permit  it.  I  must  bear  my  bur 
den  alone  until  I  could  tell  Aunt  Deel.  She  would 
know  what  to  do.  Mr.  Wright  came  along  and 
found  me  sitting  in  deep  dejection  on  a  bed  of  vivid, 
green  moss  by  an  old  stump  at  the  trail-side. 

"What  ye  doing  here  ?"  he  asked  in  surprise. 

"Nothing,"  I  answered  gravely. 

The  Comptroller  must  have  observed  the  sorrow 
in  my  face,  for  he  asked : 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"Nothing,"  I  lied,  and  then  my  conscience  caught 
up  with  my  tongue  and  I  added :  "It's  a  secret." 

Fearing  that  my  uncle  would  disgrace  himself  in 
the  hearing  of  Mr.  Wright,  I  said  something — I  do 
not  remember  what,  save  that  it  related  to  the 
weather — in  a  loud  voice  by  way  of  warning. 


OUR  LITTLE  STRANGE  COMPANION     105 

They  noticed  the  downcast  look  of  me  when  we 
entered  camp. 

"Why,  Bub,  you  look  tired,"  said  Uncle  Pea- 
body  as  he  gave  me  that  familiar  hug  of  his. 

I  did  not  greet  him  with  the  cheerful  warmth 
which  had  characterized  our  meetings,  and  seeing 
the  disappointment  in  his  look  I  kissed  him  rather 
flippantly. 

"Lay  down  on  this  old  sheep  skin  and  take  a  nap," 
said  he.  "It's  warm  in  here." 

He  spread  the  sheep  skin  on  the  balsam  boughs 
back  under  the  lean-to  and  I  lay  down  upon  it  and 
felt  the  glow  of  the  fire  and  heard  the  talk  of  the 
men  but  gave  no  heed  to  it.  I  turned  my  face  away 
from  them  and  lay  as  if  asleep,  but  with  a  mind 
suddenly  estranged  and  very  busy. 

Now  I  know  what  I  knew  not  then,  that  my  soul 
was  breaking  camp  on  the  edge  of  the  \vorld  and 
getting  ready  to  move  over  the  line.  Still  no  sus 
picion  of  the  truth  reached  me  that  since  I  came  to 
live  with  him  my  uncle  had  been  bitting  and  break 
ing  his  tongue.  It  occurred  to  irie  that  Bill  Seaver, 
whom  I  secretly  despised,  had  spoilt  him  and  that  I 
had  done  wrong  in  leaving  him  all  the  afternoon 
defenseless  in  bad  company. 

I  wondered  if  he  were  beyond  hope  or  if  he  would 
have  to  fry  and  smoke  and  yell  forever.  But  I  had 
hope.  My  faith  in  Aunt  Deel  as  a  corrector  and 


106       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

punisher  was  very  great.  She  would  know  what  to 
do.  I  heard  the  men  talking  in  low  voices  as  they 
cooked  the  supper  and  the  frying  of  the  fish  and 
bacon.  It  had  grown  dark.  Uncle  Peabody  came 
and  leaned  over  me  with  a  lighted  candle  and  touched 
my  face  with  his  hand.  I  lay  still  with  closed  eyes- 
He  left  me  and  I  heard  him  say  to  the  others : 

"He's  asleep  and  his  cheeks  are  wet.  Looks  as 
if  he'd  been  cry  in'  all  to  himself  there.  I  guess  he 
got  too  tired." 

Then  Mr.  Wright  said :  "Something  happened  to 
the  boy  this  afternoon.  I  don't  know  what.  I 
stopped  at  the  brook  to  clean  the  fish  and  he  ran  on 
toward  the  camp  to  surprise  you.  I  came  along 
soon  and  found  him  sitting  alone  by  the  trail  out 
there.  He  looked  as  if  he  hadn't  a  friend  in  the 
world.  I  asked  him  what  was  the  matter  and  he 
said  it  was  a  secret." 

"Say,  by  — "  Uncle  Peabody  paused.  "He  must 
a  stole  up  here  and  heard  me  tellin'  that — "  he 
paused  again  and  went  on :  "Say,  I  wouldn't  'a'  had 
him  hear  that  for  a  thousan'  dollars.  I  don't  know 
how  to  behave  myself  when  I  get  in  the  woods.  If 
you're  goin'  to  travel  with  a  boy  like  that  you've 
got  to  be  good  all  the  time — ye  can't  take  no  rest  or 
vacation  at  all  whatever." 

"You've  got  to  be  sound  through  and  through  or 


Otra  LITTLE  STRANGE  COMPANION    107 

they'll  find  it  out/'  said  the  Comptroller.  "You 
can't  fool  'em  long." 

"He's  got  a  purty  keen  edge  on  him,"  said  Bill 
Seaver. 

"On  the  whole  I  think  he's  the  most  interesting 
child  I  ever  saw,"  said  Mr.  Wright. 

I  knew  that  these  words  were  compliments  but 
their  meaning  was  not  quite  clear  to  me.  The 
words,  however,  impressed  and  pleased  me  deeply 
and  I  recalled  them  often  after  that  night.  I  im 
mediately  regretted  them,  for  I  was  hungry  and 
wanted  to  get  up  and  eat  some  supper  but  had  to 
lie  a  while  longer  now  so  they  would  not  know  that 
my  ears  had  been  open.  Nothing  more  was  said 
and  I  lay  and  listened  to  the  wind  in  the  tree-tops 
and  the  crackling  of  the  fire,  and  suddenly  the  day 
ended. 

I  felt  the  gentle  hand  of  Uncle  Peabody  on  my 
face  and  I  heard  him  speak  my  name  very  tenderly. 
I  opened  my  eyes.  The  sun  was  shining.  It  was 
a  new  day.  Bill  Seaver  had  begun  to  cook  the 
breakfast.  I  felt  better  and  ran  down  to  the  landing 
and  washed.  My  uncle's  face  had  a  serious  look  in 
it.  So  had  Mr.  Wright's.  I  was  happy  but  dimly 
conscious  of  a  change. 

I  remember  how  Bill  beat  the  venison  steak,  which 
he  had  brought  in  his  pack  basket,  with  the  head  of 


108       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

his  ax,  adding  a  strip  of  bacon  and  a  pinch  of  salt, 
now  and  then,  until  the  whole  was  a  thick  mass  of 
pulp  which  he  broiled  over  the  hot  coals.  I  remem 
ber,  too,  how  delicious  it  was. 

We  ate  and  packed  and  got  into  the  boats  and 
fished  along  down  the  river.  At  Seaver's  we  hitched 
up  our  team  and  headed  homeward.  When  we 
drove  into  the  dooryard  Aunt  Deel  came  and  helped 
me  out  of  the  buggy  and  kissed  my  cheek  and  said 
she  had  been  "terrible  lonesome."  Mr.  Wright 
changed  his  clothes  and  hurried  away  across  coun 
try  with  his  share  of  the  fish  on  his  way  to  Canton. 

"Well,  I  want  to  know ! — ayes !  ain't  they  beauti 
ful  !  ayes !"  Aunt  Deel  exclaimed  as  Uncle  Peabody 
spread  the  trout  in  rows  on  the  wash-stand  by  the 
back  door. 

"I've  got  to  tell  you  something,"  I  said. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"I  heard  him  say  naughty  words."  i 

"What  words?" 

"I— I  can't  say  'em.  They're  wicked.  I'm— 
I'm  'fraid  he's  goin'  to  be  burnt  up,"  I  stammered. 

"It's  so.    I  said  'em,"  my  uncle  confessed. 

Aunt  Deel  turned  to  me  and  said :  "Bart,  you  go 
right  down  to  the  barn  and  bring  me  a  strap — ayes ! 
— you  bring  me  a  strap — right  away." 

I  walked  slowly  toward  the  barn.  For  the  mo 
ment,  I  was  sorry  that  I  had  told  on  my  uncle. 


OUR  LITTLE  STRANGE  COMPANION     109 

Scalding  tears  began  to  flow  down  my  cheeks.  I 
sat  on  the  steps  to  the  hay  loft  for  a  moment  to 
collect  my  thoughts. 

Then  I  heard  Aunt  Deel  call  to  me :  "Hurry  up, 
Bart." 

I  rose  and  picked  out  the  smallest  strap  I  could 
find  and  walked  slowly  back  to  the  house.  I  said, 
in  a  trembling  voice,  as  I  approached  them,  "I — I 
don't  think  he  meant  it." 

"He'll  have  to  be  punished — just  the  same — ayes 
—he  will." 

We  went  into  the  house  together,  I  sniffling,  but 
curious  to  see  what  was  going  to  happen.  Uncle 
Peabody,  by  prearrangement,  as  I  know  now,  lay 
face  downward  on  the  sofa,  and  Aunt  Deel  began 
to  apply  the  strap.  It  was  more  than  I  could  bear, 
and  I  threw  myself  between  my  beloved  friend  and 
the  strap  and  pleaded  with  loud  cries  for  his  for 
giveness. 

Uncle  Peabody  rose  and  walked  out  of  the  house 
without  a  word  and  with  a  sterner  look  in  his  face 
than  I  had  ever  seen  there.  I  searched  for  him  as 
soon  as  my  excitement  had  passed,  but  in  vain.  I 
went  out  back  of  the  cow  barn  and  looked  away 
down  across  the  stumpy  flats.  Neither  he  nor  Shep 
\\ere  in  sight.  All  that  lonely  afternoon  I  watched 
for  him.  The  sun  fell  warm  but  my  day  was  dark. 
Aunt  Deel  found  me  in  tears  sitting  on  the  steps  of 


110      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

the  cheese  house  and  got  her  Indian  book  out  of  her 
trunk  and,  after  she  had  cautioned  me  to  be  very 
careful  of  it,  let  me  sit  down  with  it  by  myself  alone, 
and  look  at  the  pictures. 

I  had  looked  forward  to  the  time  when  I  could 
be  trusted  to  sit  alone  with  the  Indian  book.  In  my 
excitement  over  the  picture  of  a  red  man  toma 
hawking  a  child  I  turned  a  page  so  swiftly  that  I 
put  a  long  tear  in  it.  My  pleasure  was  gone.  I 
carefully  joined  the  torn  edges  and  closed  the  book 
and  put  it  on  the  table  and  ran  and  hid  behind  the 
barn. 

By  and  by  I  saw  Uncle  Peabody  coming  down  the 
lane  with  the  cows,  an  ax  on  his  shoulder.  I  ran 
to  meet  him  with  a  joy  in  my  heart  as  great  as  any 
I  have  ever  known.  He  greeted  me  with  a  cheerful 
word  and  leaned  over  me  and  held  me  close  against 
his  legs  and  looked  into  my  eyes  and  asked: 

"Are  you  willin'  to  kiss  me?" 

I  kissed  him  and  then  he  said : 

"If  ye  ever  hear  me  talk  like  that  ag'in,  I'll  let 
the  stoutest  man  in  Ballybeen  hit  me  with  his  ax." 

I  was  not  feeling  well  and  went  to  bed  right  after 
supper.  As  I  was  undressing  I  heard  Aunt  Deel 
exclaim:  "My  heavens!  See  what  that  boy  has 
done  to  my  Indian  book — ayes!  Ain't  that  awful! 
—ayes!" 


OUR  LITTLE  STRANGE  COMPANION     111 

"Pretend  ye  ain't  noticed  it,"  said  Uncle  Pea- 
body.  "He's  had  trouble  enough  for  one  day." 

A  deep  silence  followed  in  which  I  knew  that 
Aunt  Deel  was  probably  wiping  tears  from  her 
eyes.  I  went  to  bed  feeling  better. 

Next  day  the  stage,  on  its  way  to  Ballybeen,  came 
to  our  house  and  left  a  box  and  a  letter  from  Mr. 
Wright,  addressed  to  my  uncle,  \vhich  read: 

"DEAR  SIR — I  send  herewith  a  box  of  books  and 
magazines  in  the  hope  that  you  or  Miss  Baynes  will 
read  them  aloud  to  my  little  partner  and  in  doing  so 
get  some  enjoyment  and  profit  for  yourselves. 
"Yours  respectfully, 

"S.  WRIGHT,  JR. 

"P.  S.— When  the  contents  of  the  box  has  duly 
risen  into  your  minds,  will  you  kindly  see  that  it 
does  a  like  service  to  your  neighbors  in  School  Dis 
trict  No.  7?  S.  W.,  JR." 

"I  guess  Bart  has  made  a  friend  o'  this  great  man 
— sartin  ayes !"  said  Aunt  Deel.  "I  wonder  who'll 
be  the  next  one." 


CHAPTER  V 

IN  THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  CANDLES 

I  REMEMBER  that  I  tried  to  walk  and  talk 
like  Silas  Wright  after  that  day.     He  had  a 
way  of  twisting  little  locks  of  his  hair  between 
his  thumb  and  finger  when  he  sat  thinking.    I  prac 
tised  that  trick  of  his  when  I  was  alone  and  unob 
served. 

One  day  I  was  walking  up  and  down,  as  I  had 
seen  Mr.  Wright  do,  and  talking  to  my  friend 
"Baynes,"  when  Aunt  Deel  called  to  me  that  I 
should  bring  the  candle  molds  from  the  shed.  I 
was  keeper  of  the  molds  and  greatly  enjoyed  the 
candle-making.  First  we  strung  the  wicks  on  slen 
der  wooden  rods — split  and  whittled  by  Uncle  Pea- 
body  and  me  as  we  sat  down  by  the  stove  in  the 
evening.  Then  the  wicks  were  let  down  into  tin 
molds,  each  of  which  ended  in  a  little  inverted  cone 
with  a  hole  through  its  point.  We  carefully  worked 
the  wick  ends  through  these  perforations  and  drew 
them  tight.  When  the  mold  was  ready  we  poured 
in  the  melted  tallow,  which  hardened  in  a  few  min- 

112 


IN  THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  CANDLES     113 

utes.  Later,  by  pulling  the  wooden  rods,  we  loosened 
the  candles  and  drew  them  out  of  the  molds.  They 
were  as  smooth  and  white  as  polished  alabaster. 
With  shears  we  trimmed  the  wick  ends.  The  iron 
candlesticks  were  filled  and  cleaned  of  drippings  and 
set  on  the  little  corner  shelf  above  the  sink. 

When  night  fell  again  and  the  slender  white  shaft, 
rising  above  its  base  of  iron,  was  crowned  with  yel 
low  flame,  I  can  think  of  nothing  more  beautiful  in 
color,  shape  and  symbolism.  It  was  the  torch  of 
liberty  and  learning  in  the  new  world — a  light-house 
on  the  shore  of  the  great  deep. 

The  work  of  the  day  ended,  the  candles  were 
grouped  near  the  edge  of  the  table  and  my  aunt's 
armchair  was  placed  beside  them.  Then  I  sat  on 
Uncle  Peabody's  lap  by  the  fire  or,  as  time  went  on, 
in  my  small  chair  beside  him,  while  Aunt  Deel  ad 
justed  her  spectacles  and  began  to  read. 

At  last  those  of  wearied  bones  and  muscles  had  sat 
down  to  look  abroad  with  the  mind's  eye.  Their 
reason  began  to  concern  itself  with  problems  beyond 
the  narrow  limits  of  the  house  and  farm ;  their  imag 
inations  took  the  wings  of  the  poet  and  rose  above 
all  their  humble  tasks. 

I  recall  how,  when  the  candles  were  lighted,  story 
teller,  statesman,  explorer,  poet  and  preacher  came 
from  the  far  ends  of  the  earth  and  poured  their  souls 
into  ours.  It  was  a  dim  light — that  of  the  candles — 


114       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

but  even  to-day  it  shines  through  the  long  alley  of 
these  many  years  upon  my  pathway.  I  see  now  what 
I  saw  not  then  in  the  candle-light,  a  race  marching 
out  of  darkness,  ignorance  and  poverty  with  our 
little  party  in  the  caravan.  Crowding  on,  they 
widened  the  narrow  way  of  their  stern  religion. 

At  first  we  had  only  The  Horse  Farrier,  The  Cat 
tle  Book,  The  Story  of  the  Indian  Wars — a  book 
which  had  been  presented  to  Aunt  Deel  by  her  grand 
mother,  and  which  in  its  shroud  of  white  linen  lay 
buried  in  her  trunk  most  of  the  time  for  fear  harm 
would  come  to  it,  as  it  did,  indeed,  when  in  a  mo 
ment  of  generosity  she  had  loaned  it  to  me.  The 
Bible  and  the  St.  Lawrence  Republican  were  always 
with  us. 

Many  a  night,  when  a  speech  of  Daniel  Webster 
or  Henry  Clay  or  Dewitt  Clinton  had  pushed  me 
to  the  edge  of  unconsciousness,  while  I  resisted  by 
counting  the  steel  links  in  the  watch  chain  of  Uncle 
Peabody — my  rosary  in  every  time  of  trouble — I 
had  been  bowled  over  the  brink  by  some  account  of 
horse  colic  and  its  remedy,  or  of  the  proper  treat 
ment  of  hoof  disease  in  sheep.  I  suffered  keenly 
from  the  horse  colic  and  like  troubles  and  from  the 
many  hopes  and  perils  of  democracy  in  my  child 
hood.  I  found  the  Bible,  however,  the  most  joy 
less  book  of  all,  Samson  being,  as  I  thought,  the 
only  man  in  it  who  amounted  to  much.  A  shadow 


IN  THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  CAISTDLES     115 

lay  across  its  pages  which  came,  I  think,  from  the 
awful  solemnity  of  my  aunt  when  she  opened  them. 
It  reminded  me  of  a  dark  rainy  day  made  fearful  by 
thunder  and  lightning.  It  was  not  the  cheerful 
thing,  illumined  by  the  immortal  faith  of  man  which, 
since  then,  I  have  found  it  to  be.  The  box  of  books 
changed  the  whole  current  of  our  lives. 

I  remember  vividly  that  evening  when  we  took 
out  the  books  and  tenderly  felt  their  covers  and 
read  their  titles.  There  were  Cruik shanks'  Comic 
Almanac  and  Hood's  Comic  Annual;  tales  by  Wash 
ington  Irving  and  James  K.  Paulding  and  Nathaniel 
Hawthorne  and  Miss  Mitford  and  Miss  Austin; 
the  poems  of  John  Milton  and  Felicia  Hemans. 
Of  the  treasures  in  the  box  I  have  now  in  my 
possession:  A  life  of  Washington,  The  Life  ami 
Writings  of  Doctor  Duckworth,  The  Stolen  Child, 
by  "John  Gait,  Esq.";  Rosine  Laval,  by  "Mr. 
Smith";  Sermons  and  Essays,  by  William  Ellery 
Channing.  We  found  in  the  box,  also,  thirty 
numbers  of  the  United  States  Magazine  and  Demo 
cratic  Review  and  sundry  copies  of  the  New  York 
Mirror. 

"Ayes!  I  declare!  What  do  you  think  o'  this, 
Peabody  Baynes !"  Aunt  Deel  exclaimed  as  she  sat 
turning  the  pages  of  a  novel.  "Ye  know  Aunt 
Minervy  used  to  say  that  a  novel  was  a  fast  horse 
on  the  road  to  perdition — ayes!" 


116       THE  LIGHT  nsr  THE  CLEARING 

"Well  she  wasn't — "  Uncle  Peabody  began  and 
stopped  suddenly.  What  he  meant  to  say  about  her 
will  never  be  definitely  known.  In  half  a  moment  he 
added : 

"I  guess  if  Sile  Wright  recommends  'em  they 
won't  hurt  us  any." 

"Ayes !  I  ain't  afraid — we'll  wade  into  'em,"  she 
answered  recklessly.  "Ayes!  we'll  see  what  they're 
about." 

Aunt  Deel  began  with  The  Stolen  Child.  She 
read  slowly  and  often  paused  for  comment  or  ex 
planation  or  laughter  or  to  touch  the  corner  of  an 
eye  with  a  corner  of  her  handkerchief  in  moments 
when  we  were  all  deeply  moved  by  the  misfortunes 
of  our  favorite  characters,  which  were  acute  and 
numerous.  Often  she  stopped  to  spell  out  phrases 
of  French  or  Latin,  whereupon  Uncle  Peabody 
would  exclaim : 

"Call  it  'snags'  and  go  on." 

The  "snags"  were  numerous  in  certain  of  the 
books  we  read,  in  which  case  Uncle  Peabody  would 
exclaim : 

"Say,  that's  purty  rough  plowin'.  Mebbe  you  bet 
ter  move  into  another  field." 

How  often  I  have  heard  Aunt  Deel  reading  when 
the  effect  was  like  this: 

"The  Duchess  exclaimed  with  an  accent  which  be 
trayed  the  fact  that  she  had  been  reared  in  the 


IN  THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  CANDLES     117 

French  Capital :  'Snags !'  Whereupon  Sir  Roger  re 
joined  in  French  equally  patrician :  'Snags !'  " 

Those  days  certain  authors  felt  it  necessary  to 
prove  that  their  education  had  not  been  neglected 
or  forgotten.  Their  way  was  strewn  with  fragments 
of  classic  lore  intended  to  awe  and  mystify  the 
reader,  while  evidences  of  correct  religious  senti 
ment  were  dropped,  here  and  there,  to  reassure  him. 
The  newspapers  and  magazines  of  the  time,  like 
certain  of  its  books,  were  salted  with  little  advertise 
ments  of  religion,  and  virtue  and  honesty  and  thrift. 

In  those  magazines  we  read  of  the  great  West — 
"the  poor  man's  paradise" — "the  stoneless  land  of 
plenty";  of  its  delightful  climate,  of  the  ease  with 
which  the  farmer  prospered  on  its  rich  soil.  Uncle 
Peabody  spoke  playfully  of  going  West,  after  that, 
but  Aunt  Deel  made  no  answer  and  concealed  her 
opinion  on  that  subject  for  a  long  time.  As  for  my 
self,  the  reading  had  deepened  my  interest  in  east 
and  west  and  north  and  south  and  in  the  skies  above 
them.  How  mysterious  and  inviting  they  had  be 
come  ! 

One  evening  a  neighbor  had  brought  the  Repub 
lican  from  the  post-office.  I  opened  it  and  read  aloud 
these  words,  in  large  type  at  the  top  of  the  page : 

Silas  Wright  Elected  to  the  U.  S.  Senate. 
"Well   I   want  to  know!"   Uncle   Peabody  ex- 


118       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEABING 

claimed.     "That  would  make  me  forgit  it  if  I  was 
goin'  to  be  hung.    Go  on  and  read  what  it  says." 

I  read  of  the  choosing  of  our  friend  for  the  seat 
made  vacant  by  the  resignation  of  William  L. 
Marcy,  who  had  been  elected  governor,  and  the 
part  which  most  impressed  us  were  these  words  from 
a  letter  of  Mr.  Wright  to  Azariah  Flagg  of  Albany, 
written  when  the  former  was  asked  to  accept  the 
place : 

"I  am  too  young  and  too  poor  for  such  an  eleva 
tion.  I  have  not  had  the  experience  in  that  great 
theater  of  politics  to  qualify  me  for  a  place  so  ex 
alted  and  responsible.  I  prefer  therefore  the  hum 
bler  position  which  I  now  occupy." 

"That's  his  way,"  said  Uncle  Peabody.  "They 
had  hard  work  to  convince  him  that  he  knew  enough 
to  be  Surrogate." 

"Big  men  have  little  conceit — ayes!"  said  Aunt 
Deel  with  a  significant  glance  at  me. 

The  candles  had  burned  low  and  I  was  watching 
the  shroud  of  one  of  them  when  there  came  a  rap  at 
the  door.  It  was  unusual  for  any  one  to  come  to 
our  door  in  the  evening  and  we  were  a  bit  startled 
Uncle  Peabody  opened  it  and  old  Kate  entered  with 
out  speaking  and  nodded  to  my  aunt  and  uncle  and 
sat  down  by  the  fire.  Vividly  I  remembered  the 


IN  THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  CANDLES     119 

day  of  the  fortune-telling.  The  same  gentle  smile 
lighted  her  face  as  she  looked  at  me.  She  held  up 
her  hand  with  four  fingers  spread  above  it. 

"Ayes,"  said  Aunt  Deel,  "there  are  four  perils." 

My  aunt  rose  and  went  into  the  but'ry  while  I  sat 
staring  at  the  ragged  old  woman.  Her  hair  was 
white  now  and  partly  covered  by  a  worn  and  faded 
bonnet.  Forbidding  as  she  was  I  did  not  miss  the 
sweetness  in  her  smile  and  her  blue  eyes  when  she 
looked  at  me.  Aunt  Dcel  came  with  a  plate  of 
doughnuts  and  bread  and  butter  and  head  cheese 
and  said  in  a  voice  full  of  pity: 

"Poor  oF  Kate — ayes!  Here's  somethin'  for  ye 
—ayes !" 

She  turned  to  my  uncle  and  said : 

"Peabody  Baynes,  what'll  we  do — I'd  like  to  know 
— ayes!  She  can't  rove  all  night." 

"I'll  git  some  blankets  an'  make  a  bed  for  her, 
good  'nough  for  anybody,  out  in  the  hired  man's 
room  over  the  shed,"  said  my  uncle. 

He  brought  the  lantern — a  little  tower  of  per 
forated  tin — and  put  a  lighted  candle  inside  of  it. 
Then  he  beckoned  to  the  stranger,  who  followed  him 
out  of  the  front  door  with  the  plate  of  food  in  her 
hands. 

"Well  I  declare !  It's  a  long  time  since  she  went 
up  this  road — ayes!"  said  Aunt  Deel,  yawning  as 
she  resumed  her  chair. 


120       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

"Who  is  ol'  Kate  ?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  just  a  poor  ol'  crazy  woman — wanders  all 
'round — ayes !" 

"What  made  her  crazy?" 

"Oh,  I  guess  somebody  misused  and  deceived  her 
when  she  was  young — ayes !  It's  an  awful  wicked 
thing  to  do.  Come,  Bart — go  right  up  to  bed  now. 
It's  high  time — ayes!" 

"I  want  to  wait  'til  Uncle  Peabody  comes  back," 
said  I. 

"Why?" 

"I — I'm  afraid  she'll  do  somethin'  to  him." 

"Nonsense!  Ol'  Kate  is  just  as  harmless  as  a 
kitten.  You  take  your  candle  and  go  right  up  to 
bed — this  minute — ayes !" 

I  went  up-stairs  with  the  candle  and  undressed 
very  slowly  and  thoughtfully  while  I  listened  for 
the  footsteps  of  my  uncle.  I  did  not  get  into  bed 
until  I  heard  him  come  in  and  blow  out  his  lantern 
and  start  up  the  stairway.  As  he  undressed  he  told 
me  how  for  many  years  the  strange  woman  had  been 
roving  in  the  roads  "up  hill  and  down  dale,  thou 
sands  an'  thousands  o'  miles,"  and  never  reaching  the 
end  of  her  journey. 

In  a  moment  we  heard  a  low  wail  above  the 
sound  of  the  breeze  that  shook  the  leaves  of  the  old 
"popple"  tree  above  our  roof. 

"What's  that?"  I  whispered. 


IN  THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  CANDLES     121 

"I  guess  it's  ol'  Kate  ravin',"  said  Uncle  Peabody. 

It  touched  my  heart  and  I  lay  listening  for  a 
time  but  heard  only  the  loud  whisper  of  the  popple 
leaves. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  GREAT  STRANGER 

SOME  strangers  came  along  the  road  those 
days — hunters,  peddlers  and  the  like — and 
their  coming  filled  me  with  a  joy  which 
mostly  went  away  with  them,  I  regret  to  say.  None 
of  these,  however,  appealed  to  my  imagination  as 
did  old  Kate.  But  there  was  one  stranger  greater 
than  she — greater,  indeed,  than  any  other  who  came 
into  Rattleroad.  He  came  rarely  and  would  rot 
be  long  detained.  How  curiously  we  looked  at  him, 
knowing  his  fame  and  power !  This  great  stranger 
was  Money. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  day  that  my  uncle  showed 
me  a  dollar  bill  and  a  little  shiny,  gold  coin  and  three 
pieces  of  silver,  nor  can  I  forget  how  carefully  he 
watched  them  while  they  lay  in  my  hands  and  pres 
ently  put  them  back  into  his  wallet.  That  was  long 
before  the  time  of  which  I  am  writing.  I  remem 
ber  hearing  him  say,  one  day  of  that  year,  when  I 
asked  him  to  take  us  to  the  Caravan  of  Wild  Beasts 
which  was  coming  to  the  village : 

"I'm  sorry,  but  it's  been  a  hundred  Sundays  since 

122 


THE  GREAT  STRANGER  123 

I  had  a  dollar  in  my  wallet  for  more  than  ten  min 
utes." 

I  have  his  old  account  book  for  the  years  of  1837 
and  1838.  Here  are  some  of  the  entries : 

"Balanced  accounts  with  J.  Dorothy  and  gave  him 
my  note  for  $2.15,  to  be  paid  in  salts  January  1, 
1838.  Sold  ten  bushels  of  wheat  to  E.  Miner  at 
90  cents,  to  be  paid  in  goods. 

"Sold  two  sheep  to  Flavius  Curtis  and  took  his 
note  for  $6,  payable  in  boots  on  or  before  March  the 
first." 

Only  one  entry  in  more  than  a  hundred  mentions 
money,  and  this  was  the  sum  of  eleven  cents  received 
in  balance  from  a  neighbor. 

So  it  will  be  seen  that  a  spirit  of  mutual  accom 
modation  served  to  help  us  over  the  rough  going. 
Mr.  Grimshaw,  however,  demanded  his  pay  in  cash 
and  that  I  find  was,  mainly,  the  habit  of  the  money 
lenders. 

We  were  poor  but  our  poverty  was  not  like  that 
of  these  days  in  which  I  am  writing.  It  was  proud 
and  cleanly  and  well-fed.  We  had  in  us  the  best 
blood  of  the  Puritans.  Our  fathers  had  seen  heroic 
service  in  the  wars  and  we  knew  it. 

There  were  no  farmer- folk  who  thought  more  of 
the  virtue  of  cleanliness.  On  this  subject  my  aunt 
was  a  deep  and  tireless  thinker.  She  kept  a  watch- 


THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

^ 

ful  eye  upon  us.  In  her  view  men-folks  were  like 
floors,  furniture  and  dishes.  They  were  in  the  na 
ture  of  a  responsibility — a  tax  upon  women  as  it 
were.  Every  day  she  reminded  me  of  the  duty  of 
keeping  my  body  clean.  Its  members  had  often  suf 
fered  the  tyranny  of  the  soaped  hand  at  the  side  of 
the  rain  barrel.  I  suppose  that  all  the  waters  of 
this  world  have  gone  up  in  the  sky  and  come  down 
again  since  those  far  days,  but  even  now  the  thought 
of  my  aunt  brings  back  the  odor  of  soft  soap  and 
rain  barrels. 

She  did  her  best,  also,  to  keep  our  minds  in  a 
cleanly  state  of  preservation — a  work  in  which  the 
teacher  rendered  important  service.  He  was  a  young 
man  from  Canton. 

One  day  when  I  had  been  kept  after  hours  for 
swearing  in  a  fight  and  then  denying  it,  he  told  me 
that  there  was  no  reason  why  I  shouldn't  be  a  great 
man  if  I  stuck  to  my  books  and  kept  my  heart  clean. 
I  heard  with  alarm  that  there  was  another  part  of 
me  to  be  kept  clean.  How  was  it  to  be  done  ? 

"Well,  just  make  up  your  mind  that  you'll  never 
lie,  whatever  else  you  do,"  he  said.  "You  can't  do 
anything  bad  or  mean  unless  you  intend  to  cover  it 
up  with  lies." 

What  a  simple  rule  was  this  of  the  teacher! — 
and  yet — well  the  very  next  thing  he  said  was : 

"Where  did  you  hear  all  that  swearing?" 


THE  GREAT  STRANGER  125 

How  could  I  answer  his  question  truthfully?  I 
was  old  enough  to  know  that  the  truth  would  dis 
grace  my  Uncle  Peabody.  I  could  not  tell  the  truth, 
therefore,  and  I  didn't.  I  put  it  all  on  Dug  Draper, 
although  his  swearing  had  long  been  a  dim,  indefi 
nite  and  useless  memory. 

As  a  penalty  I  had  to  copy  two  maxims  of  Wash 
ington  five  times  in  my  wTriting-book.  In  doing  so 
I  put  them  on  the  wall  of  my  memory  where  I  have 
seen  them  every  day  of  my  life  and  from  which  I 
read  as  I  write. 

"Speak  no  evil  of  the  absent  for  it  is  unjust." 
"Labor  to  keep  alive  in  your  breast  that  little 
spark  of  celestial  fire  called  conscience." 

The  boys  in  the  school  were  a  sturdy  big-boned  lot 
with  arms  and  legs  like  the  springing  bow.  Full- 
lunged,  great-throated  fellows,  they  grew  to  be, 
calling  the  sheep  and  cattle  in  the  land  of  far- 
reaching  pastures.  There  was  an  undersized  boy 
three  years  older  who  often  picked  on  me  and  with 
whom  I  would  have  no  peaceful  commerce. 

I  copy  from  an  old  memorandum  book  a  statement 
of  my  daily  routine  just  as  I  put  it  down  one  of  those 
days: 

"My  hardest  choar  is  to  get  up  after  uncle  calls 
me.  I  scramble  down  stairs  and  pick  up  my  boots 
and  socks  and  put  them  on.  Then  I  go  into  the 


126       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

setting  room  and  put  on  my  jacket.  I  get  some 
brand  for  the  sheep.  Then  I  put  on  my  cap  and 
mittens  and  go  out  and  feed  the  sheep.  Then  I  get 
my  breakfast.  Then  I  put  on  my  frock,  cap,  mit 
tens  and  fetch  in  my  wood.  Then  I  feed  the  horses 
their  oats.  Then  I  lay  away  my  old  clothes  until 
night.  I  put  on  my  best  coat  and  mittens  and  tip 
pet  and  start  for  school.  By  the  time  I  get  to  Joe's 
my  toes  are  cold  and  I  stop  and  warm  them.  When 
I  get  to  school  I  warm  me  at  the  stove.  Then  I  go 
to  my  seat  and  study  my  reader,  then  I  take  out  my 
arithmetic,  then  my  spelling  book,  then  comes  the 
hardest  study  that  ever  landed  on  Plymouth  Rock. 
It  is  called  geography.  After  the  spelling  lesson 
comes  noon.  The  teacher  plays  with  me  cos  the 
other  boys  are  so  big.  I  am  glad  when  I  go  home. 
Then  I  do  my  choars  again,  and  hear  my  aunt  read 
until  bedtime." 

There  were  girls  in  the  school,  but  none  like  Sally. 
They  whispered  together  with  shy  glances  in  our  di 
rection,  as  if  they  knew  funny  secrets  about  us, 
and  would  then  break  into  noisy  jeers.  They  did 
not  interest  me,  and  probably  because  I  had  seen  the 
lightness  and  grace  and  beauty  of  Sally  Dunkel- 
berg  and  tasted  the  sweetness  of  her  fancies. 

There  were  the  singing  and  spelling  schools  and 
the  lyceums,  but  those  nights  were  few  and  far  be 
tween.  Not  more  than  four  or  five  in  the  whole 
winter  were  we  out  of  the  joyful  candle-light  of  our 
own  home.  Even  then  our  hands  were  busy  making 


THE  GREAT  STRANGER  127 

lighters  or  splint  brooms,  or  paring  and  quartering 
and  stringing  the  apples  or  cracking  butternuts  while 
Aunt  Deel  read. 

After  the  sheep  came  we  kept  only  two  cows. 
The  absence  of  cattle  was  a  help  to  the  general  prob 
lem  of  cleanliness.  The  sheep  were  out  in  the 
fields  and  I  kept  away  from  them  for  fear  the  rams 
would  butt  me.  I  remember  little  of  the  sheep  save 
the  washing  and  shearing  and  the  lambs  which  Uncle 
Peabody  brought  to  our  fireside  to  be  warmed  on 
cold  mornings  of  the  early  spring.  I  remember  ask 
ing  where  the  lambs  came  from  when  I  was  a  small 
boy,  and  that  Uncle  Peabody  said  they  came  from 
"over  the  river" — a  place  regarding  which  his  merry 
ignorance  provoked  me.  In  the  spring  they  were 
driven  to  the  deep  hole  and  dragged,  one  by  one, 
into  the  cold  water  to  have  their  fleeces  \vashed. 
When  the  weather  had  warmed  men  came  to  shear 
them  and  their  oily  white  fleeces  were  clipped  close 
to  the  skin  and  each  taken  off  in  one  piece  like  a  coat 
and  rolled  up  and  put  on  the  wool  pile. 

I  was  twelve  years  old  when  I  began  to  be  the 
reader  for  our  little  family.  Aunt  Deel  had  long 
complained  that  she  couldn't  keep  up  with  her  knit 
ting  and  read  so  much.  We  had  not  seen  Mr. 
Wright  for  nearly  two  years,  but  he  had  sent  us  the 
novels  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  and  I  had  led  them  heart 
deep  into  the  creed  battles  of  Old  Mortality. 


128       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

Then  came  the  evil  days  of  1837,  when  the  story 
of  our  lives  began  to  quicken  its  pace  and  excite  our 
interest  in  its  coming  chapters.  It  gave  us  enough 
to  think  of,  God  knows. 

Wild  speculations  in  land  and  the  American  paper- 
money  system  had  brought  us  into  rough  going.  The 
banks  of  the  city  of  New  York  had  suspended  pay 
ment  of  their  notes.  They  could  no  longer  meet 
their  engagements.  As  usual,  the  burden  fell 
heaviest  on  the  poor.  It  was  hard  to  get  money 
even  for  black  salts. 

Uncle  Peabody  had  been  silent  and  depressed  for 
a  month  or  more.  He  had  signed  a  note  for  Rod 
ney  Barnes,  a  cousin,  long  before  and  was  afraid 
that  he  would  have  to  pay  it.  I  didn't  know  what  a 
note  was  and  I  remember  that  one  night,  when  I 
lay  thinking  about  it,  I  decided  that  it  must  be  some 
thing  in  the  nature  of  horse  colic.  My  uncle  told 
me  that  a  note  was  a  trouble  which  attacked  the 
brain  instead  of  the  stomach.  I  was  with  Uncle 
Peabody  so  much  that  I  shared  his  feeling  but  never 
ventured  to  speak  of  it  or  its  cause.  He  didn't  like 
to  be  talked  to  when  he  felt  badly.  At  such  times 
he  used  to  say  that  he  had  the  brain  colic.  He  told 
me  that  notes  had  an  effect  on  the  brain  like  that 
of  green  apples  on  the  stomach. 

One  autumn  day  in  Canton  Uncle  Peabody  traded 
three  sheep  and  twenty  bushels  of  wheat  for  a  cook 


THE  GREAT  STRANGER  129 

stove  and  brought  it  home  in  the  big  wagon.  Rod 
ney  Barnes  came  with  him  to  help  set  up  the  stove. 
He  was  a  big  giant  of  a  man  with  the  longest  nose 
in  the  township.  I  had  often  wondered  how  any  one 
would  solve  the  problem  of  kissing  Mr.  Barnes  in 
the  immediate  region  of  his  nose,  the  same  being  in 
the  nature  of  a  defense. 

I  remember  that  I  regarded  it  with  a  kind  of 
awe  because  I  had  been  forbidden  to  speak  of  it. 
The  command  invested  Mr.  Barnes'  nose  with  a 
kind  of  sanctity.  Indeed  it  became  one  of  the  treas 
ures  of  my  imagination. 

That  evening  I  \vas  chiefly  interested  in  the  stove. 
What  a  joy  it  was  to  me  with  its  damper  and  grid 
dles  and  high  oven  and  the  shiny  edge  on  its  hearth ! 
It  rivaled,  in  its  novelty  and  charm,  any  tin  peddler's 
cart  that  ever  came  to  our  door.  John  Axtell  and 
his  wife,  who  had  seen  it  pass  their  house,  hurried 
over  for  a  look  at  it.  Every  hand  was  on  the  stove 
as  we  tenderly  carried  it  into  the  house,  piece  by 
piece,  and  set  it  up.  Then  they  cut  a  hole  in  the 
upper  floor  and  the  stone  chimney  and  fitted  the 
pipe.  How  keenly  we  watched  the  building  of  the 
fire !  How  quickly  it  roared  and  began  to  heat  the 
room ! 

When  the  Axtells  had  gone  away  Aunt  Deel  said : 

"It's  grand !  It  is  sartin— but  I'm  'fraid  we  can't 
afford  it— ayes  I  be !" 


130       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

"We  can't  afford  to  freeze  any  longer.  I  made 
up  my  mind  that  we  couldn't  go  through  another 
winter  as  we  have,"  was  my  uncle's  answer. 

"How  much  did  it  cost?"  she  asked. 

"Not  much  differ' nt  from  thirty-four  dollars  in 
sheep  and  grain,"  he  answered. 

Rodney  Barnes  stayed  to  supper  and  spent  a  part 
of  the  evening  with  us. 

Like  other  settlers  there,  Mr.  Barnes  was  a  cheer 
ful  optimist.  Everything  looked  good  to  him  until 
it  turned  out  badly.  He  stood  over  the  stove  with 
a  stick  of  wood  and  made  gestures  with  it  as  he  told 
how  he  had  come  from  Vermont  with  a  team  and  a 
pair  of  oxen  and  some  bedding  and  furniture  and 
seven  hundred  dollars  in  money.  He  flung  the  stick 
of  wood  into  the  box  with  a  loud  thump  as  he  told 
how  he  had  bought  his  farm  of  Benjamin  Grimshaw 
at  a  price  which  doubled  its  value.  True  it  was  the 
price  which  other  men  had  paid  in  the  neighborhood, 
but  they  had  all  paid  too  much.  Grimshaw  had  es 
tablished  the  price  and  called  it  fair.  He  had  taken 
Mr.  Barnes  to  two  or  three  of  the  settlers  on  the 
hills  above  Lickitysplit. 

"Tell  this  man  what  you  think  about  the  kind  o' 
land  we  got  here,"  Grimshaw  had  demanded. 

The  tenant  recommended  it.  He  had  to.  They 
were  all  afraid  of  Grimshaw.  Mr.  Barnes  picked  up 
a  flat  iron  and  felt  its  bottom  and  waved  it  in  the  air 


THE  GREAT  STRANGER  131 

as  he  alleged  that  it  was  a  rocky,  stumpy,  rooty,  God 
forsaken  region  far  from  church  or  market  or  school 
on  a  rough  road  almost  impassable  for  a  third  of  the 
year.  Desperate  economy  and  hard  work  had  kept 
his  nose  to  the  grindstone  but,  thank  God,  he  had 
nose  enough  left. 

Now  and  then  Grimshaw  (and  others  like  him) 
loaned  money  to  people,  but  he  always  had  some 
worthless  hay  or  a  broken-down  horse  which  you 
had  to  buy  before  you  could  get  the  money. 

Mr.  Barnes  put  down  the  flat  iron  and  picked  up 
the  poker  and  tried  its  strength  on  his  knee  as  he 
told  how  he  had  heard  that  it  was  a  growing  coun 
try  near  the  great  water  highway  of  the  St.  Law 
rence.  Prosperous  towns  were  building  up  in  it. 
There  were  going  to  be  great  cities  in  Northern 
New  York.  What  they  called  a  railroad  was  com 
ing.  There  were  rich  stores  of  lead  and  iron  in 
the  rocks.  Mr.  Barnes  had  bought  two  hundred 
acres  at  ten  dollars  an  acre.  He  had  to  pay  a  fee 
of  five  per  cent,  to  Grimshaw's  lawyer  for  the  sur 
vey  and  the  papers.  This  left  him  owing  fourteen 
hundred  dollars  on  his  farm — much  more  than  it 
was  worth.  One  hundred  acres  of  the  land  had 
been  roughly  cleared  by  Grimshaw  and  a  former 
tenant.  The  latter  had  toiled  and  struggled  and  paid 
tribute  and  given  up. 

Our  cousin  twisted  the  poker  in  his  great  hands 


132       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

until  it  squeaked  as  he  stood  before  my  uncle  and 
said: 

"My  wife  and  I  have  chopped  and  burnt  and  pried 
and  hauled  rocks  an'  shoveled  dung  an'  milked  an' 
churned  until  we  are  worn  out.  For  almost  twenty 
years  we've  been  workin'  days  an'  nights  an'  Sun 
days.  My  mortgage  was  over-due,  I  owed  six  hun 
dred  dollars  on  it.  I  thought  it  all  over  one  day 
an*  went  up  to  Grimshaw's  an'  took  him  by  the  back 
of  the  neck  and  shook  him.  He  said  he  would  drive 
me  out  o'  the  country.  He  gave  me  six  months  to 
pay  up.  I  had  to  pay  or  lose  the  land.  I  got  the 
money  on  the  note  that  you  signed  over  in  Potsdam. 
Nobody  in  Canton  would  'a'  dared  to  lend  it  to  me." 

The  poker  broke  and  he  threw  the  pieces  under 
the  stove. 

"Why?"  my  uncle  asked. 

Mr.  Barnes  got  hold  of  another  stick  of  wood  and 
went  on. 

"  'Fraid  o'  Grimshaw.  He  didn't  want  me  to  be 
able  to  pay  it.  The  place  is  worth  more  than  six 
hundred  dollars  now — that's  the  reason.  I  intended 
to  cut  some  timber  an'  haul  it  to  the  village  this  win 
ter  so  I  could  pay  a  part  o'  the  note  an'  git  more  time 
as  I  told  ye,  but  the  roads  have  been  so  bad  I  couldn't 
do  any  haulinV 

My  uncle  went  and  took  a  drink  at  the  water  pail. 
I  saw  by  his  face  that  he  was  unusually  wrought  up. 


THE  GREAT  STRANGER  133 

"My  heavens  an*  earth!"  he  exclaimed  as  he  sat 
down  again. 

"It's  the  brain  colic,"  I  said  to  myself  as  I  looked 
at  him. 

Mr.  Barnes  seemed  to  have  it  also. 

"Too  much  note,"  I  whispered. 

"I'm  awful  sorry,  but  I've  done  everything  I 
could,"  said  Mr.  Barnes. 

"Ain't  there  somebody  that'll  take  another  mort 
gage? — it  ought  to  be  safe  now,"  my  uncle  sug 
gested. 

"Money  is  so  tight  it  can't  be  done.  The  bank 
has  got  all  the  money  an'  Grimshaw  owns  the  bank. 
I've  tried  and  tried,  but  I'll  make  you  safe.  I'll  give 
you  a  mortgage  until  I  can  turn  'round." 

So  I  saw  how  Rodney  Barnes,  like  other  settlers 
in  Lickitysplit,  had  gone  into  bondage  to  the  land 
lord. 

"How  much  do  you  o\ve  on  this  place?"  Barnes 
asked. 

"Seven  hundred  an'  fifty  dollars,"  said  my  uncle. 

"Is  it  due?" 

"It's  been  due  a  year  an'  if  I  have  to  pay  that 
note  I'll  be  short  my  interest." 

"God  o'  Israel !  I'm  scairt,"  said  Barnes. 

Down  crashed  the  stick  of  wood  into  the  box. 

"What  about?" 

Mr.  Barnes  tackled  a  nail  that  stuck  out  of  the 


134       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

woodwork  and  tried  to  pull  it  between  his  thumb 
and  finger  while  I  watched  the  process  with  grow 
ing  interest. 

"It  would  be  like  him  to  put  the  screws  on  you 
now,"  he  grunted,  pulling  at  the  nail.  "You've  got 
between  him  an'  his  prey.  You've  taken  the  mouse 
away  from  the  cat." 

I  remember  the  little  panic  that  fell  on  us  then. 
I  could  see  tears  in  the  eyes  of  Aunt  Deel  as  she  sat 
with  her  head  leaning  wearily  on  her  hand. 

"If  he  does  I'll  do  all  I  can,"  said  Barnes,  "what 
ever  I've  got  will  be  yours." 

The  nail  came  out  of  the  wall. 

"I  had  enough  saved  to  pay  off  the  mortgage," 
my  uncle  answered.  "I  suppose  it'll  have  to  go  for 
the  note." 

Mr.  Barnes'  head  was  up  among  the  dried  apples 
on  the  ceiling.  A  movement  of  his  hand  broke  a 
string  of  them.  Then  he  dropped  his  huge  bulk 
into  a  chair  which  crashed  to  the  floor  beneath  him. 
He  rose  blushing  and  said : 

"I  guess  I  better  go  or  I'll  break  everything  you've 
got  here.  I  kind  o'  feel  that  way." 

Rodney  Barnes  left  us. 

I  remember  how  Uncle  Peabody  stood  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  floor  and  whistled  the  merriest  tune  he 
knew. 

"Stand  right  up  here,"  he  called  in  his  most  cheer- 


THE  GREAT  STRANGER  135 

ful  tone.  "Stand  right  up  here  before  me,  both  o' 
ye." 

I  got  Aunt  Deel  by  the  hand  and  led  her  toward 
my  uncle.  We  stood  facing  him.  "Stand  straighter," 
he  demanded.  "Now,  altogether.  One,  two,  three, 
ready,  sing." 

He  beat  time  with  his  hand  in  imitation  of  the 
singing  master  at  the  schoolhouse  and  we  joined  him 
in  singing  an  old  tune  which  began:  "O  keep  my 
heart  from  sadness,  God." 

This  irresistible  spirit  of  the  man  bridged  a  bad 
hour  and  got  us  off  to  bed  in  fairly  good  condition. 

A  few  days  later  the  note  came  due  and  its  owner 
insisted  upon  full  payment.  There  was  such  a 
clamor  for  money  those  days !  I  remember  that  my 
aunt  had  sixty  dollars  which  she  had  saved,  little  by 
little,  by  selling  eggs  and  chickens.  She  had  planned 
to  use  it  to  buy  a  tombstone  for  her  mother  and 
father — a  long-cherished  ambition.  My  uncle 
needed  the  most  of  it  to  help  pay  the  note.  We 
drove  to  Potsdam  on  that  sad  errand  and  what  a 
time  we  had  getting  there  and  back  in  deep  mud  and 
sand  and  jolting  over  corduroys! 

"Bart,"  my  uncle  said  the  next  evening,  as  I  took 
down  the  book  to  read.  "I  guess  we'd  better  talk 
things  over  a  little  to-night.  These  are  hard  times. 
If  we  can  find  anybody  with  money  enough  to  buy 
i'em  I  dunno  but  we  better  sell  the  sheep." 


136       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

"If  you  hadn't  been  a  fool,"  my  aunt  exclaimed 
with  a  look  of  great  distress — "ayes!  if  you  hadn't 
been  a  fool." 

"I'm  just  what  I  be  an*  I  ain't  so  big  a  fool  that 
I  need  to  be  reminded  of  it,"  said  my  uncle. 

"I'll  stay  at  home  an'  work,"  I  proposed  bravely. 

"You  ain't  old  enough  for  that,"  sighed  Aunt  Deel. 

"I  want  to  keep  you  in  school,"  said  Uncle  Pea- 
body,  who  sat  making  a  splint  broom. 

While  we  were  talking  in  walked  Benjamin  Grim- 
shaw — the  rich  man  of  the  hills.  He  didn't  stop  to 
knock  but  walked  right  in  as  if  the  house  were  his 
own.  It  was  common  gossip  that  he  held  a  mortgage 
on  every  acre  of  the  countryside.  I  had  never  liked 
him,  for  he  was  a  stern-eyed  man  who  was  always 
scolding  somebody,  and  I  had  not  forgotten  what  his 
son  had  said  of  him. 

"Good  night !"  he  exclaimed  curtly,  as  he  sat  down 
and  set  his  cane  between  his  feet  and  rested  his  hands 
upon  it.  He  spoke  hoarsely  and  I  remember  the 
curious  notion  came  to  me  that  he  looked  like  our 
old  ram.  The  stern  and  rugged  face  of  Mr.  Grim- 
shaw  and  the  rusty  gray  of  his  homespun  and  the 
hoarseness  of  his  tone  had  suggested  this  thought 
to  me.  The  long  silvered  tufts  above  his  keen,  gray 
eyes  moved  a  little  as  he  looked  at  my  uncle.  There 
were  deep  lines  upon  his  cheeks  and  chin  and  fore 
head.  He  wore  a  thin,  gray  beard  under  his  chin. 
His  mouth  was  shut  tight  in  a  long  line  curving 


THE  GREAT  STRANGER  137 

downward  a  little  at  the  ends.  My  uncle  used  to 
say  that  his  mouth  was  made  to  keep  his  thoughts 
from  leaking  and  going  to  waste.  He  had  a  big 
body,  a  big  chin,  a  big  mouth,  a  big  nose  and  big 
ears  and  hands.  His  eyes  lay  small  in  this  setting 
of  bigness. 

"Why,  Mr.  Grimshaw,  it's  years  since  you've  been 
in  our  house — ayes !"  said  Aunt  Deel. 

"I  suppose  it  is,"  he  answered  rather  sharply.  "I 
don't  have  much  time  to  get  around.  I  have  to 
work.  There's  some  people  seem  to  be  able  to  git 
along  without  it." 

He  drew  in  his  breath  quickly  and  with  a  hissing 
sound  after  every  sentence. 

"How  are  your  folks?"  my  aunt  asked. 

"So's  to  eat  their  allowance — there's  never  any 
trouble  about  that,"  said  Mr.  Grimshaw.  "I  see 
you've  got  one  o'  these  newfangled  stoves,"  he 
added  as  he  looked  it  over.  "Huh!  Rich  folks  can 
have  anything  they  want." 

Uncle  Peabody  had  sat  splintering  the  long  stick 
of  yellow  birch.  I  observed  that  the  jackknife 
trembled  in  his  hand.  His  tone  had  a  touch  of  un- 
naturalness,  proceeding  no  doubt  from  his  fear  of 
the  man  before  him,  as  he  said: 

"When  I  bought  that  stove  I  felt  richer  than  I  do 
now.  I  had  almost  enough  to  settle  with  you  up  to 
date,  but  I  signed  a  note  for  a  friend  and  had  to 
pay  it.1; 


138       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

"Ayuh!  I  suppose  so,"  Grimshaw  answered  in 
a  tone  of  bitter  irony  which  cut  me  like  a  knife-blade, 
young  as  I  was.  "What  business  have  you  signin' 
notes  an'  givin'  away  money  which  ain't  yours  to 
give — I'd  like  to  know?  What  business  have  you 
actin'  like  a  rich  man  when  you  can't  pay  yer  honest 
debts?  I'd  like  to  know  that,  too?" 

"If  I've  ever  acted  like  a  rich  man  it's  been  when 
I  wa'n't  lookin',"  said  Uncle  Peabody. 

"What  business  have  you  got  enlargin'  yer  fam 
ily — takin'  another  mouth  to  feed  and  another  body 
to  spin  for?  That  costs  money.  I  ain't  no  objection 
if  a  man  can  afford  it,  but  the  money  it  costs  ain't 
yours  to  give.  It  looks  as  if  it  belonged  to  me.  You 
spend  yer  nights  readin'  books  when  ye  ought  to  be 
to  work  an'  you've  scattered  that  kind  o'  foolishness 
all  over  the  neighborhood.  I  want  to  tell  you  one 
thing,  Baynes,  you've  got  to  pay  up  or  git  out  o' 
here." 

He  raised  his  cane  and  shook  it  in  the  air  as  he 
spoke. 

"Oh,  I  ain't  no  doubt  o'  that,"  said  Uncle  Pea- 
body.  "You'll  have  to  have  yer  money — that's  sure ; 
an'  you  will  have  it  if  I  live,  every  cent  of  it.  This 
boy  is  goin'  to  be  a  great  help  to  me — you  don't 
know  what  a  good  boy  he  is  and  what  a  comfort  he's 
been  to  us !" 

I  had  understood  that  reference  to  me  in  Mr. 


THE  GREAT  STEANGEE  139 

Grimshaw' s  complaint  and  these  words  of  my  be 
loved  uncle  uncovered  my  emotions  so  that  I  put 
my  elbow  on  the  wood-box  and  leaned  my  head  upon 
it  and  sobbed. 

"I  tell  ye  I'd  rather  have  that  boy  than  all  the 
money  you've  got,  Mr.  Grimshaw,"  Uncle  Peabody 
added. 

My  aunt  came  and  patted  my  shoulder  and  said : 
"Sh — sh — sh !  Don't  you  care,  Bart !  You're  just 
the  same  as  if  you  was  our  own  boy — ayes! — you 
be." 

"I  ain't  goin'  to  be  hard  on  ye,  Baynes,"  said  Mr. 
Grimshaw  as  he  rose  from  his  chair;  "I'll  give  ye 
three  months  to  see  what  you  can  do.  I  wouldn't 
wonder  if  the  boy  would  turn  out  all  right.  He's 
big  an'  cordy  of  his  age  an'  a  purty  likely  boy  they 
tell  me.  He'd  'a'  been  all  right  at  the  county  house 
until  he  was  old  enough  to  earn  his  livin',  but  you 
was  too  proud  for  that — wasn't  ye?  I  don't  mind 
pride  unless  it  keeps  a  man  from  payin'  his  honest 
debts.  You  ought  to  have  better  sense." 

"An'  you  ought  to  keep  yer  breath  to  cool  yer 
porridge,"  said  Uncle  Peabody. 

Mr.  Grimshaw  opened  the  door  and  stood  for  a 
moment  looking  at  us  and  added  in  a  milder  tone : 
"You've  got  one  o'  the  best  farms  in  this  town  an* 
if  ye  work  hard  an'  use  common  sense  ye  ought  to 
be  out  o'  debt  in  five  years — mebbe  less." 


140      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

He  closed  the  door  and  went  away. 

Neither  of  us  moved  or  spoke  as  we  listened  to  his 
footsteps  on  the  gravel  path  that  went  down  to  the 
road  and  to  the  sound  of  his  buggy  as  he  drove  away. 
Then  Uncle  Peabody  broke  the  silence  by  saying : 

"He's  the  dam'dest— " 

He  stopped,  set  the  half-splintered  stick  aside, 
closed  his  jackknife  and  went  to  the  water-pail  to 
cool  his  emotions  with  a  drink. 

Aunt  Deel  took  up  the  subject  where  he  had 
dropped  it,  as  if  no  half -expressed  sentiment  would 
satisfy  her,  saying: 

" — old  skinflint  that  ever  lived  in  this  world,  ayes ! 
I  ain't  goin'  to  hold  down  my  opinion  o'  that  man 
no  longer,  ayes !  I  can't.  It's  too  powerful — ayes !" 

Having  recovered  my  composure  I  repeated  that 
I  should  like  to  give  up  school  and  stay  at  home  and 
work. 

Aunt  Deel  interrupted  me  by  saying: 

"I  have  an  idee  that  Sile  Wright  will  help  us — 
ayes!  He's  comin'  home  an'  you  better  go  down 
an'  see  him — ayes !  Hadn't  ye  ?" 

"Bart  an'  I'll  go  down  to-morrer,"  said  Uncle 
Peabody. 

I  remember  well  our  silent  going  to  bed  that  night 
and  how  I  lay  thinking  and  praying  that  I  might 
grow  fast  and  soon  be  able  to  take  the  test  of  man 
hood — that  of  standing  in  a  half -bushel  measure  and 


THE  GREAT  STRANGER  141 

shouldering  two  bushels  of  corn.  By  and  by  a  wind 
began  to  shake  the  popple  leaves  above  us  and  the 
sound  soothed  me  like  the  whispered  "hush-sh"  of  a 
gentle  mother. 

We  dressed  with  unusual  care  in  the  morning. 
After  the  chores  were  done  and  we  had  had  our 
breakfast  we  went  up-stairs  to  get  ready. 

Aunt  Deel  called  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  in  a 
generous  tone : 

"Peabody,  if  I  was  you  I'd  put  on  them  butternut 
trousers — ayes !  an'  yer  new  shirt  an'  hat  an'  necktie, 
but  you  must  be  awful  careful  of  'em — ayes." 

The  hat  and  shirt  and  necktie  had  been  stored  in 
the  clothes  press  for  more  than  a  year  but  they  were 
nevertheless  "new"  to  Aunt  Deel.  Poor  soul !  She 
felt  the  importance  of  the  day  and  its  duties.  It  was 
that  ancient,  Yankee  dread  of  the  poorhouse  that 
filled  her  heart  I  suppose.  Yet  I  wonder,  often,  why 
she  wished  us  to  be  so  proudly  adorned  for  such  a 
crisis. 

Some  fourteen  months  before  that  day  my  uncle 
had  taken  me  to  Potsdam  and  traded  grain  and 
salts  for  what  he  called  a  "rip  roarin'  fine  suit  o' 
clothes"  with  boots  and  cap  and  shirt  and  collar  and 
necktie  to  match,  I  having  earned  them  by  sawing 
and  cording  wood  at  three  shillings  a  cord.  How 
often  we  looked  back  to  those  better  days!  The 
clothes  had  been  too  big  for  me  and  I  had  had  to 


142       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

wait  until  my  growth  had  taken  up  the  "slack"  in 
my  coat  and  trousers  before  I  could  venture  out  of 
the  neighborhood.  I  had  tried  them  on  every  week 
or  so  for  a  long  time.  Now  my  stature  filled  them 
handsomely  and  they  filled  me  with  a  pride  and  satis 
faction  which  I  had  never  known  before.  The  col 
lar  was  too  tight,  so  that  Aunt  Deel  had  to  sew 
one  end  of  it  to  the  neckband,  but  my  tie  covered 
the  sewing. 

Since  that  dreadful  day  of  the  petticoat  trousers 
my  wonder  had  been  regarding  all  integuments,  what 
Sally  Dunkelberg  would  say  to  them.  At  last  I 
could  start  for  Canton  with  a  strong  and  capable 
feeling.  If  I  chanced  to  meet  Sally  Dunkelberg  I 
need  not  hide  my  head  for  shame  as  I  had  done  that 
memorable  Sunday. 

"Now  may  the  Lord  help  ye  to  be  careful — awful, 
terrible  careful  o'  them  clothes  every  minute  o'  this 
day,"  Aunt  Deel  cautioned  as  she  looked  at  me. 
"Don't  git  no  horse  sweat  nor  wagon  grease  on  'em." 

To  Aunt  Deel  wagon  grease  was  the  worst  enemy 
of  a  happy  and  respectable  home. 

We  hitched  our  team  to  the  grasshopper  spring 
wagon  and  set  out  on  our  journey.  It  was  a  warm, 
hazy  Indian-summer  day  in  November.  My  uncle 
looked  very  stiff  and  sober  in  his  "new"  clothes. 
Such  breathless  excitement  as  that  I  felt  when  we 


THE  GREAT  STRANGER  143 

were  riding  down  the  hills  and  could  see  the  distant 
spires  of  Canton,  I  have  never  known  since  that  day. 
As  we  passed  "the  mill"  we  saw  the  Silent  Woman 
looking  out  of  the  little  window  of  her  room  above 
the  blacksmith  shop — a  low,  weather-stained,  frame 
building,  hard  by  the  main  road,  with  a  narrow 
hanging  stair  on  the  side  of  it. 

"She  keeps  watch  by  the  winder  when  she  ain't 
travelin',"  said  Uncle  Peabody.  "Knows  all  that's 
goin'  on — that  woman — knows  who  goes  to  the  vil 
lage  an'  how  long  they  stay.  When  Grimshaw  goes 
by  they  say  she  hustles  off  down  the  road  in  her 
rags.  She  looks  like  a  sick  dog  herself,  but  I've 
heard  that  she  keeps  that  room  o'  hers  just  as  neat 
as  a  pin." 

Near  the  village  we  passed  a  smart-looking  buggy 
drawn  by  a  spry- footed  horse  in  shiny  harness. 
Then  I  noticed  with  a  pang  that  our  wagon  was 
covered  with  dry  mud  and  that  our  horses  were 
rather  bony  and  our  harnesses  a  kind  of  lead  color. 
So  I  was  in  an  humble  state  of  mind  when  we  en 
tered  the  village.  Uncle  Peabody  had  had  little  to 
say  and  I  had  kept  still  knowing  that  he  sat  in  the 
shadow  of  a  great  problem. 

There  was  a  crowd  of  men  and  women  in  front  of 
Mr.  Wright's  office  and  through  its  open  door  I 
saw  many  of  his  fellow  townsmen.  We  waited  at 
the  door  for  a  few  minutes.  I  crowded  in  while 


144      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

Uncle  Peabody  stood  talking  with  a  villager.  The 
Senator  caught  sight  of  me  and  came  to  my  side  and 
put  his  hand  on  my  head  and  said : 

"Hello,  Bart!  How  you've  grown!  and  how 
handsome  you  look !  Where's  your  uncle  ?" 

"He's  there  by  the  door,"  I  answered. 

"Well,  le's  go  and  see  him." 

Then  I  followed  him  out  of  the  office. 

Mr.  Wright  was  stouter  and  grayer  and  grander 
than  when  I  had  seen  him  last.  He  was  dressed  in 
black  broadcloth  and  wore  a  big  beaver  hat  and  high 
collar  and  his  hair  was  almost  white.  I  remember 
vividly  his  clear,  kindly,  gray  eyes  and  ruddy  cheeks. 

"Baynes,  I'm  glad  to  see  you,"  he  said  heartily. 
"Did  ye  bring  me  any  jerked  meat?" 

"Didn't  think  of  it,"  said  Uncle  Peabody.  "But 
I've  got  a  nice  young  doe  all  jerked  an'  if  you're 
fond  o'  jerk  I'll  bring  ye  down  some  to-morrer." 

"I'd  like  to  take  some  to  Washington  but  I 
wouldn't  have  you  bring  it  so  far." 

"I'd  like  to  bring  it — I  want  a  chance  to  talk  with 
ye  for  half  an  hour  or  such  a  matter,"  said  my  uncle. 
"I've  got  a  little  trouble  on  my  hands." 

"There's  a  lot  of  trouble  here,"  said  the  Senator. 
"I've  got  to  settle  a  quarrel  between  two  neighbors 
and  visit  a  sick  friend  and  make  a  short  address  to 
the  Northern  New  York  Conference  at  the  Meth 
odist  Church  and  look  over  a  piece  of  land  that  I'm 


THE  GREAT  STRANGER  145 

intending  to  buy,  and  discuss  the  plans  for  my  new 
house  with  the  carpenter.  I  expect  to  get  through 
about  six  o'clock  and  right  after  supper  I  could  ride 
up  to  your  place  with  you  and  walk  back  early  in  the 
morning.  We  could  talk  things  over  on  the  way 
up." 

"That's  first  rate,"  said  my  uncle.  "The  chores 
ain't  much  these  days  an'  I  guess  my  sister  can  git 
along  with  'em." 

The  Senator  took  us  into  his  office  and  introduced 
us  to  the  leading  men  of  the  county.  There  were : 
Minot  Jenison,  Gurdon  Smith,  Ephraim  Butter- 
field,  Lemuel  Buck,  Baron  S.  Doty,  Richard  N. 
Harrison,  John  L.  Russell,  Silas  Baldwin,  Calvin 
Hurlbut,  Doctor  Olin,  Thomas  H.  Conkey  and 
Preston  King.  These  were  names  with  which  the 
Republican  had  already  made  us  familiar. 

"Here,"  said  the  Senator  as  he  put  his  hand  on  my 
head,  "is  a  coming  man  in  the  Democratic  party." 

The  great  men  laughed  at  my  blushes  and  we  came 
away  with  a  deep  sense  of  pride  in  us.  At  last  I  felt 
equal  to  the  ordeal  of  meeting  the  Dunkelbergs.  My 
uncle  must  have  shared  my  feeling  for,  to  my  de 
light,  he  went  straight  to  the  basement  store  above 
which  was  the  modest  sign :  "H.  Dunkelberg,  Pro 
duce."  I  trembled  as  we  walked  down -the  steps  and 
opened  the  door.  I  saw  the  big  gold  watch  chain, 
the  handsome  clothes,  the  mustache  and  side  whis- 


146       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

kers  and  the  large  silver  ring  approaching  us,  but  I 
was  not  as  scared  as  I  expected  to  be.  My  eyes  were 
more  accustomed  to  splendor. 

"Well  I  swan !"  said  the  merchant  in  the  treble 
voice  which  I  remembered  so  well.  "This  is  Bart 
and  Peabody !  How  are  you?" 

"Pretty  well,"  I  answered,  my  uncle  being  toe 
slow  of  speech  to  suit  my  sense  of  propriety.  "How 
is  Sally?" 

The  two  men  laughed  heartily  much  to  my  em 
barrassment. 

"He's  getting  right  down  to  business,"  said  my 
uncle. 

"That's  right,"  said  Mr.  Dunkelberg.  "Why, 
Bart,  she's  spry  as  a  cricket  and  pretty  as  a  picture. 
Come  up  to  dinner  with  me  and  see  for  yourself." 

Uncle  Peabody  hesitated,  whereupon  I  gave  him 
a  furtive  nod  and  he  said  "All  right,"  and  then  I 
had  a  delicious  feeling  of  excitement.  I  had  hard 
work  to  control  my  impatience  while  they  talked.  I 
walked  on  some  butter  tubs  in  the  back  room  and 
spun  around  on  a  whirling  stool  that  stood  in  front 
of  a  high  desk  and  succeeded  in  the  difficult  feat  of 
tipping  over  a  bottle  of  ink  without  getting  any  on 
myself.  I  covered  the  multitude  of  my  sins  on  the 
desk  with  a  newspaper  and  sat  down  quietly  in  a 
chair. 

By  and  by  I  asked,  "Are  you  'most  ready  to  go  ?" 


THE  GREAT  STRANGER  147 

"Yes — come  on — it's  after  twelve  o'clock,"  said 
Mr.  Dunkelberg.  "Sally  will  be  back  from  school 
now." 

My  conscience  got  the  better  of  me  and  I  con 
fessed  about  the  ink  bottle  and  was  forgiven. 

So  we  walked  to  the  big  house  of  the  Dunkelbergs 
and  I  could  hear  my  heart  beating  when  we  turned 
in  at  the  gate — the  golden  gate  of  my  youth  it  must 
have  been,  for  after  I  had  passed  it  I  thought  no 
more  as  a  child.  That  rude  push  which  Mr.  Grim- 
shaw  gave  me  had  hurried  the  passing. 

I  was  a  little  surprised  at  my  own  dignity  when 
Sally  opened  the  door  to  welcome  us.  My  uncle 
told  Aunt  Deel  that  I  acted  and  spoke  like  Silas 
Wright,  "so  nice  and  proper."  Sally  was  different, 
too — less  playful  and  more  beautiful  with  long  yel 
low  curls  covering  her  shoulders. 

"How  nice  you  look !"  she  said  as  she  took  my  arm 
and  led  me  into  her  playroom. 

"These  are  my  new  clothes,"  I  boasted.  "They 
are  very  expensive  and  I  have  to  be  careful  of  them." 

I  remember  not  much  that  we  said  or  did  but  I 
could  never  forget  how  she  played  for  me  on  a  great 
shiny  piano — I  had  never  seen  one  before — and 
made  me  feel  very  humble  with  music  more  to  my 
liking  than  any  I  have  heard  since — crude  and  simple 
as  it  was — while  her  pretty  fingers  ran  up  and  down 
the  keyboard. 


148       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

0  magic  ear  of  youth!    I  wonder  how  it  would 
sound  to  me  now — the  rollicking  lilt   of  Barney 
Leave  the  Girls  Alone — even  if  a  sweet  maid  flung 
its  banter  at  me  with  flashing  fingers  and  well- fash 
ioned  lips. 

1  behaved  myself  with  great  care  at  the  table — I 
remember  that — and,  after  dinner,  we  played  in  the 
dooryard  and  the  stable,  I  with  a  great  fear  of  tear 
ing  my  new  clothes.     I  stopped  and  cautioned  her 
more  than  once :   "Be  careful !    For  gracious  sake ! 
be  careful  o'  my  new  suit !" 

As  we  were  leaving  late  in  the  afternoon  she  said : 

"I  wish  you  would  come  here  to  school." 

"I  suppose  he  will  sometime,"  said  Uncle  Pea- 
body. 

A  new  hope  entered  my  breast,  that  moment,  and 
began  to  grow  there. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  kiss  her?"  said  Mr.  Dunkel- 
berg  with  a  smile. 

I  saw  the  color  in  her  cheeks  deepen  as  she  turned 
with  a  smile  and  walked  away  two  or  three  steps 
while  the  grown  people  laughed,  and  stood  with  her 
back  turned  looking  in  at  the  window. 

"You're  looking  the  wrong  way  for  the  scenery," 
said  Mr.  Dunkelberg. 

She  turned  and  walked  toward  me  with  a  look  of 
resolution  in  her  pretty  face  and  said : 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  him." 


THE  GREAT  STRANGER  149 

We  kissed  each  other  and,  again,  that  well-remem 
bered  touch  of  her  hair  upon  my  face !  But  the  feel 
of  her  warm  lips  upon  my  own — that  was  so  differ 
ent  and  so  sweet  to  remember  in  the  lonely  days  that 
followed!  Fast  flows  the  river  to  the  sea  when 
youth  is  sailing  on  it.  They  had  shoved  me  out  of 
the  quiet  cove  into  the  swift  current — those  dear, 
kindly,  thoughtless  people !  Sally  ran  away  into  the 
house  as  their  laughter  continued  and  my  uncle  and 
I  walked  down  the  street.  How  happy  I  was ! 

We  went  to  the  Methodist  Church  where  Mr. 
Wright  was  speaking  but  we  couldn't  get  in.  There 
were  many  standing  at  the  door  who  had  come  too 
late.  We  could  hear  his  voice  and  I  remember  that 
he  seemed  to  be  talking  to  the  people  just  as  I  had 
heard  him  talk  to  my  aunt  and  uncle,  sitting  by  our 
fireside,  only  louder.  We  were  tired  and  went  down 
to  the  tavern  and  waited  for  him  on  its  great  porch. 
We  passed  a  number  of  boys  playing  three-old-cat 
in  the  school  yard.  How  I  longed  to  be  among 
them! 

I  observed  with  satisfaction  that  the  village  boys 
did  not  make  fun  of  me  when  I  passed  them  as  they 
did  when  I  wore  the  petticoat  trousers.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Wright  came  along  with  the  crowd,  by  and  by, 
and  Colonel  Medad  Moody.  We  had  supper  with 
them  at  the  tavern  and  started  away  in  the  dark  with 
the  Senator  on  the  seat  with  us.  He  and  my  uncle 


150      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

began  to  talk  about  the  tightness  of  money  and  the 
banking  laws  and  I  remember  a  remark  of  my  uncle, 
for  there  was  that  in  his  tone  which  I  could  never 
forget : 

"We  poor  people  are  trusting  you  to  look  out  for 
us — we  poor  people  are  trusting  you  to  see  that  we 
get  treated  fair.  We're  havin'  a  hard  time." 

This  touched  me  a  little  and  I  was  keen  to  hear 
the  Senator's  answer.  I  remember  so  well  the  sacred 
spirit  of  democracy  in  his  words.  Long  afterward 
I  asked  him  to  refresh  my  memory  of  them  and  so 
I  am  able  to  quote  him  as  he  would  wish. 

"I  know  it,"  he  answered.  "I  lie  awake  nights 
thinking  about  it.  I  am  poor  myself,  almost  as  poor 
as  my  father  before  me.  I  have  found  it  difficult  to 
keep  my  poverty  these  late  years  but  I  have  not 
failed.  I'm  about  as  poor  as  you  are,  I  guess.  I 
could  enjoy  riches,  but  I  want  to  be  poor  so  I  may 
not  forget  what  is  due  to  the  people  among  whom 
I  was  born — you  who  live  in  small  houses  and  rack 
your  bones  with  toil.  I  am  one  of  you,  although 
I  am  racking  my  brain  instead  of  my  bones  in  our 
common  interest.  There  are  so  many  who  would 
crowd  us  down  we  must  stand  together  and  be 
watchful  or  we  shall  be  reduced  to  an  overburdened, 
slavish  peasantry,  pitied  and  despised.  Our  danger 
will  increase  as  wealth  accumulates  and  the  cities 
grow.  I  am  for  the  average  man — like  myself. 


THE  GREAT  STRANGER  151 

They've  lifted  me  out  of  the  crowd  to  an  elevation 
which  I  do  not  deserve.  I  have  more  reputation 
than  I  dare  promise  to  keep.  It  frightens  me.  I  am 
like  a  child  clinging  to  its  father's  hand  in  a  place 
of  peril.  So  I  cling  to  the  crowd.  It  is  my  father. 
I  know  its  needs  and  wrongs  and  troubles.  I  had 
other  things  to  do  to-night.  There  were  people  who 
wished  to  discuss  their  political  plans  and  ambitions 
with  me.  But  I  thought  I  would  rather  go  with  you 
and  learn  about  your  troubles.  What  are  they  ?" 

My  uncle  told  him  about  the  note  and  the  visit  of 
Mr.  Grimshaw  and  of  his  threats  and  upbraidings. 

"Did  he  say  that  in  Bart's  hearing  ?"  asked  the 
Senator. 

"Ayes ! — right  out  plain." 

"Too  bad !  I'm  going  to  tell  you  frankly,  Baynes, 
that  the  best  thing  I  know  about  you  is  your  conduct 
toward  this  boy.  I  like  it.  The  next  best  thing  is 
the  fact  that  you  signed  the  note.  It  was  bad  busi 
ness  but  it  was  good  Qiristian  conduct  to  help  your 
friend.  Don't  regret  it.  You  were  poor  and  of  an 
age  when  the  boy's  pranks  were  troublesome  to  both 
of  you,  but  you  took  him  in.  I'll  lend  you  the  inter 
est  and  try  to  get  another  holder  for  the  mortgage 
on  one  condition.  You  must  let  me  attend  to  Bart's 
schooling.  I  want  to  be  the  boss  about  that.  We 
have  a  great  schoolmaster  in  Canton  and  when  Bart 
is  a  little  older  I  want  him  to  go  there  to  school.  I'll 


152       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

try  to  find  him  a  place  where  he  can  work  for  his 
board." 

"We'll  miss  Bart  but  we'll  be  tickled  to  death- 
there*  s  no  two  ways  about  that,"  said  Uncle  Pea- 
body. 

I  had  been  getting  sleepy,  but  this  woke  me  up. 
I  no  longer  heard  the  monotonous  creak  of  harness 
and  whiffletrees  and  the  rumble  of  wheels;  I  saw  no 
longer  the  stars  and  the  darkness  of  the  night.  My 
mind  had  scampered  off  into  the  future.  I  was  play 
ing  with  Sally  or  with  the  boys  in  the  school  yard. 

The  Senator  tested  my  arithmetic  and  grammar 
and  geography  as  we  rode  along  in  the  darkness  and 
said  by  and  by : 

"You'll  have  to  work  hard,  Bart.  You'll  have  to 
take  your  book  into  the  field  as  I  did.  After  every 
row  of  corn  I  learned  a  rule  of  syntax  or  arithmetic 
or  a  fact  in  geography  while  I  rested,  and  my 
thought  and  memory  took  hold  of  it  as  I  plied  the 
hoe.  I  don't  want  you  to  stop  the  reading,  but  from 
now  on  you  must  spend  half  of  every  evening  on 
your  lessons." 

We  got  home  at  half  past  eight  and  found  my 
aunt  greatly  worried.  She  had  done  the  chores  and 
been  standing  in  her  hood  and  shawl  on  the  porch 
listening  for  the  sound  of  the  wagon.  She  had 
kept  our  suppers  warm  but  I  was  the  only  hungry 
one. 


THE  GREAT  STRANGER  153 

As  I  was  going  to  bed  the  Senator  called  me  to 
him  and  said : 

"I  shall  be  gone  when  you  are  up  in  the  morning. 
It  may  be  a  long  time  before  I  see  you;  I  shall  leave 
something  for  you  in  a  sealed  envelope  with  your 
name  on  it.  You  are  not  to  open  the  envelope  until 
you  go  away  to  school.  I  know  how  you  will  feel 
that  first  day.  When  night  falls  you  will  think  of 
your  aunt  and  uncle  and  be  very  lonely.  When  you 
go  to  your  room  for  the  night  I  want  you  to  sit  down 
all  by  yourself  and  open  the  envelope  and  read  what 
I  shall  write.  They  will  be,  I  think,  the  most  im 
pressive  words  ever  written.  You  \vill  think  them 
over  but  you  will  not  understand  them  for  a  long 
time.  Ask  every  wise  man  you  meet  to  explain  them 
to  you,  for  all  your  happiness  will  depend  upon  your 
understanding  of  these  few  words  in  the  envelope." 

In  the  morning  Aunt  Deel  put  it  in  my  hands. 

"I  wonder  what  in  the  world  he  wrote  there — 
ayes !"  said  she.  "We  must  keep  it  careful — ayes ! — • 
I'll  put  it  in  my  trunk  an'  give  it  to  ye  when  ye  go 
to  Canton  to  school." 

"Has  Mr.  Wright  gone?"  I  asked  rather  sadly. 

"Ayes !  Land  o'  mercy !  He  went  away  long  be 
fore  daylight  with  a  lot  o'  jerked  meat  in  a  pack 
basket — ayes !  Yer  uncle  is  goin'  down  to  the  vil 
lage  to  see  'bout  the  mortgage  this  afternoon,  ayes !" 

It  was  a  Saturday  and  I  spent  its  hours  cording 


154       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

wood  in  the  shed,  pausing  now  and  then  for  a  look 
into  my  grammar.  It  was  a  happy  day,  for  the 
growing  cords  expressed  in  a  satisfactory  manner 
my  new  sense  of  obligation  to  those  I  loved.  Imag 
inary  conversations  came  into  my  brain  as  I  worked 
and  were  rehearsed  in  whispers. 

"Why,  Bart,  you're  a  grand  worker,"  my  uncle 
would  say  in  my  fancy.  "You're  as  good  as  a  hired 
man." 

"Oh,  that's  nothing,"  I  would  answer  modestly. 
"I  want  to  be  useful  so  you  won't  be  sorry  you  took 
me  and  I'm  going  to  study  just  as  Mr.  Wright  did 
and  be  a  great  man  if  I  can  and  help  the  poor  people. 
I'm  going  to  be  a  better  scholar  than  Sally  Dunkel- 
berg,  too." 

What  a  day  it  was ! — the  first  of  many  like  it.  I 
never  think  of  those  days  without  saying  to  myself: 
"What  a  God's  blessing  a  man  like  Silas  Wright 
can  be  in  the  community  in  which  his  heart  and  soul 
are  as  an  open  book !" 

As  the  evening  came  on  I  took  a  long  look  at  my 
cords.  The  shed  was  nearly  half  full  of  them.  Four 
rules  of  syntax,  also,  had  been  carefully  stored  away 
in  my  brain.  I  said  them  over  as  I  hurried  down 
into  the  pasture  with  old  Shep  and  brought  in  the 
cows.  I  got  through  milking  just  as  Uncle  Peabody 
came.  I  saw  with  joy  that  his  face  was  cheerful. 


THE  GREAT  STRANGER  155 

"Yip !"  he  shouted  as  he  stopped  his  team  at  the 
barn  door  where  Aunt  Deel  and  I  were  standing. 
"We  ain't  got  much  to  worry  about  now.  I've  got 
the  interest  money  right  here  in  my  pocket." 

We  unhitched  and  went  in  to  supper.  I  was  hop 
ing  that  Aunt  Deel  would  speak  of  my  work  but  she 
seemed  not  to  think  of  it. 

"Had  a  grand  day!"  said  Uncle  Peabody,  as  he 
sat  down  at  the  table  and  began  to  tell  what  Mr. 
Wright  and  Mr.  Dunkelberg  had  said  to  him. 

I,  too,  had  had  a  grand  day  and  probably  my  ela 
tion  was  greater  than  his.  I  tarried  at  the  looking- 
glass  hoping  that  Aunt  Deel  would  give  me  a  chance 
modestly  to  show  my  uncle  what  I  had  done.  But 
the  talk  about  interest  and  mortgages  continued. 
I  wrent  to  my  uncle  and  tried  to  whisper  in  his  ear 
a  hint  that  he  had  better  go  and  look  into  the  wood 
shed.  He  stopped  me  before  I  had  begun  by  saying : 

"Don't  bother  me  now,  Bub.  I'll  git  that  candy 
for  ye  the  next  time  I  go  to  the  village." 

Candy!  I  was  thinking  of  no  such  trivial  mat 
ter  as  candy.  He  couldn't  know  how  the  idea  shocked 
me  in  the  exalted  state  of  mind  into  which  I  had 
risen.  He  didn't  know  then  of  the  spiritual  change  in 
me  and  how  generous  and  great  I  was  feeling  and 
how  sublime  and  beautiful  was  the  new  way  in  which 
I  had  set  my  feet. 


156      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEABING 

I  went  out  on  the  porch  and  stood  looking  down 
with  a  sad  countenance.  Aunt  Deel  followed  me. 

"W'y,  Bart!"  she  exclaimed,  "you're  too  tired 
to  eat — ayes !  Be  ye  sick  ?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"Peabody,"  she  called,  "this  boy  has  worked  like 
a  beaver  every  minute  since  you  left — ayes  he  has ! 
I  never  see  anything  to  beat  it — never !  I  want  you 
to  come  right  out  into  the  wood-shed  an'  see  what 
he's  done — this  minute — ayes !" 

I  followed  them  into  the  shed. 

"W'y  of  all  things !"  my  uncle  exclaimed.  "He's 
worked  like  a  nailer,  ain't  he  ?" 

There  were  tears  in  his  eyes  when  he  took  my 
hand  in  his  rough  palm  and  squeezed  it  and  said : 

"Sometimes  I  wish  ye  was  little  ag'in  so  I  could 
take  ye  up  in  my  arms  an'  kiss  ye  just  as  I  used  to. 
Horace  Dunkelberg  says  that  you're  the  best-lookin' 
boy  he  ever  see." 

"Stop !"  Aunt  Deel  exclaimed  with  a  playful  tap 
on  his  shoulder.  "W'y !  ye  mustn't  go  on  like  that." 

"I'm  tellin'  just  what  he  said,"  my  uncle  answered. 

"I  guess  he  only  meant  that  Bart  looked  clean  an' 
decent — that's  all — ayes !  He  didn't  mean  that  Bart 
was  purty.  Land  sakes ! — no." 

I  observed  the  note  of  warning  in  the  look  she 
gave  my  uncle. 

"No,  I  suppose  not,"  he  answered,  as  he  turned 


THE  GREAT  STRANGER  157 

away  with  a  smile  and  brushed  one  of  his  eyes  with 
a  rough  finger. 

I  repeated  the  rules  I  had  learned  as  we  went  to 
the  table. 

'Tm  goin'  to  be  like  Silas  Wright  if  I  can,"  I 
added. 

"That's  the  idee !"  said  Uncle  Peabody.  "You  keep 
on  as  you've  started  an'  every  body '11  milk  into  your 
pail." 

I  kept  on — not  with  the  vigor  of  that  first  day 
with  its  new  inspiration — but  with  growing  strength 
and  effectiveness.  Nights  and  mornings  and  Satur 
days  I  worked  with  a  will  and  my  book  in  my  pocket 
or  at  the  side  of  the  field  and  was,  I  know,  a  help 
of  some  value  on  the  farm.  My  scholarship  im 
proved  rapidly  and  that  year  I  went  about  as  far  as 
I  could  hope  to  go  in  the  little  school  at  Leonard's 
Corners. 

"I  wouldn't  wonder  if  oP  Kate  was  right  about 
our  boy,"  said  Aunt  Deel  one  day  when  she  saw  me 
with  my  book  in  the  field. 

I  began  to  know  then  that  oP  Kate  had  somehow 
been  at  work  in  my  soul — subconsciously  as  I  would 
now  put  it.  I  was  trying  to  put  truth  into  the  proph 
ecy.  As  I  look  at  the  whole  matter  these  days  I 
can  see  that  Mr.  Grimshaw  himself  was  a  help  no 
less  important  to  me,  for  it  was  a  sharp  spur  with 
which  he  continued  to  prod  us. 


CHAPTER   VII 

MY  SECOND  PERIL 

WE  always  thank  God  for  men  like 
Purvis :  we  never  thank  them.  They  are 
without  honor  in  their  own  time,  but 
how  they  brighten  the  pages  of  memory !  How  they 
stimulated  the  cheerfulness  of  the  old  countryside 
and  broke  up  its  natural  reticence ! 

Mr.  Franklin  Purvis  was  our  hired  man — an 
undersized  bachelor.  He  had  a  Roman  nose,  a  face 
so  slim  that  it  would  command  interest  and  attention 
in  any  company,  and  a  serious  look  enhanced  by  a 
bristling  mustache  and  a  retreating  chin.  At  first 
and  on  account  of  his  size  I  had  no  very  high  opinion 
of  Mr.  Purvis.  That  first  evening  after  his  arrival 
I  sat  with  him  on  the  porch  surveying  him  inside  and 
out. 

"You  don't  look  very  stout,"  I  said. 

"I  ain't  as  big  as  some,  but  I'm  all  gristle  from 
my  head  to  my  heels,  inside  an'  out,"  he  answered. 

I  surveyed  him  again  as  he  sat  looking  at  the 
ledges.  He  was  not  more  than  a  head  taller  than  I, 
but  if  he  were  "all  gristle"  he  might  be  entitled  to 
respect  and  I  was  glad  to  learn  of  his  hidden  re- 

158 


MY  SECOND  PEKIL  159 

sources — glad  and  a  bit  apprehensive  as  they  began 
to  develop. 

"I'm  as  full  o'  gristle  as  a  goose's  leg/'  he  went  on. 
"God  never  made  a  man  who  could  do  more  damage 
when  he  lets  go  of  himself  an'  do  it  faster.  There 
ain't  no  use  o'  talkin'." 

There  being  no  use  of  talking,  our  new  hired  man 
continued  to  talk  while  I  listened  with  breathless  in 
terest  and  growing  respect.  He  took  a  chew  of  to 
bacco  and  squinted  his  eyes  and  seemed  to  be  study 
ing  the  wooded  rock  ledges  across  the  road  as  he 
went  on : 

"You'll  find  me  wide  awake,  I  guess.  I  ain't 
afraid  o'  any  thin'  but  lightnin' — no,  sir ! — an'  I  can 
hurt  hard  an'  do  it  rapid  when  I  begin,  but  I  can  be 
jest  as  harmless  as  a  kitten.  There  ain't  no  man  that 
can  be  more  harmlesser  when  he  wants  to  be  an' 
there's  any  decent  chance  for  it — none  whatsomever ! 
No,  sir!  I'd  rather  be  harmless  than  not — a  good 
deal." 

This  relieved,  and  was  no  doubt  calculated  to  re 
lieve,  a  feeling  of  insecurity  which  his  talk  had  in 
spired.  He  blew  out  his  breath  and  shifted  his  quid 
as  he  sat  with  his  elbows  resting  on  his  knees  and 
took  another  look  at  the  ledges  as  if  considering  how 
much  of  his  strength  would  be  required  to  move 
them. 

"Have  you  ever  hurt  anybody  ?"  I  asked. 


160      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEANING 

"Several,"  he  answered. 

"Didyoukill'em?" 

"No,  I  never  let  myself  go  too  fur.  Bein'  so  stout, 
I  have  to  be  kind  o'  careful." 

After  a  moment's  pause  he  went  on: 

"A  man  threatened  to  lick  me  up  to  Seaver's 
t'other  day.  You  couldn't  blame  him.  He  didn't 
know  me  from  a  side  o'  sole  leather.  He  just 
thought  I  was  one  o'  them  common,  every-day  cusses 
that  folks  use  to  limber  up  on.  But  he  see  his  mis 
take  in  time.  I  tell  ye  God  was  good  to  him  when 
he  kept  him  away  from  me." 

Aunt  Deel  called  us  to  supper. 

"Le's  go  in  an*  squench  our  hunger,"  Mr.  Purvis 
proposed  as  he  rose  and  shut  his  jackknife. 

I  was  very  much  impressed  and  called  him  "Mr. 
Purvis"  after  that.  I  enjoyed  and  believed  many 
tales  of  adventure  in  which  he  had  been  the  hero  as 
we  worked  together  in  the  field  or  stable.  I  told 
them  to  my  aunt  and  uncle  one  evening,  whereupon 
the  latter  said : 

"He's  a  good  man  to  work,  but  Jerusalem — !" 

He  stopped.  He  always  stopped  at  the  brink  of 
every  such  precipice.  I  had  never  heard  him  finish 
an  uncomplimentary  sentence. 

I  began  to  have  doubts  regarding  the  greatness  of 
our  hired  man.  I  still  called  him  "Mr.  Purvis,"  but 
all  my  fear  of  him  had  vanished. 


MY  SECOND  PERIL  161 

One  day  Mr.  Grimshaw  came  out  in  the  field  to 
see  my  uncle.  They  walked  away  to  the  shade  of  a 
tree  while  "Mr.  Purvis"  and  I  went  on  with  the  hoe 
ing.  I  could  hear  the  harsh  voice  of  the  money 
lender  speaking  in  loud  and  angry  tones  and  pres 
ently  he  went  away. 

"What's  the  rip?"  I  asked  as  my  uncle  returned 
looking  very  sober. 

"We  won't  talk  about  it  now,"  he  answered. 

That  look  and  the  fears  it  inspired  ruined  my  day 
which  had  begun  with  eager  plans  for  doing  and 
learning.  In  the  candle-light  of  the  evening  Uncle 
Peabody  said : 

"Grimshaw  has  demanded  his  mortgage  money 
an*  he  wants  it  in  gold  coin.  We'll  have  to  git  it 
some  wray,  I  dunno  how." 

"W'y  of  all  things !"  my  aunt  exclaimed.  "How 
are  we  goin'  to  git  all  that  money — these  hard  times  ? 
— ayes !  I'd  like  to  know  ?" 

"Well,  I  can't  tell  ye,"  said  Uncle  Peabody.  "I 
guess  he  can't  forgive  us  for  savin'  Rodney  Barnes." 

"What  did  he  say?"  I  asked. 

"Why,  he  says  we  hadn't  no  business  to  hire  a  man 
to  help  us.  He  says  you  an'  me  ought  to  do  all  the 
work  here.  He  thinks  I  ought  to  took  you  out  o' 
school  long  ago." 

"I  can  stay  out  o'  school  and  keep  on  with  my  les 
sons,"  I  said. 


162       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

"Not  an'  please  him.  He  was  mad  when  he  see  ye 
with  a  book  in  yer  hand  out  there  in  the  corn-field." 

What  were  we  to  do  now  ?  I  spent  the  first  sad 
night  of  my  life  undoing  the  plans  which  had  been 
so  dear  to  me  but  not  so  dear  as  my  aunt  and  uncle. 
I  decided  to  give  all  my  life  and  strength  to  the  sav 
ing  of  the  farm.  I  would  still  try  to  be  great,  but 
not  as  great  as  the  Senator.  Purvis  stayed  with  us 
through  the  summer  and  fall. 

After  the  crops  were  in  we  cut  and  burned  great 
heaps  of  timber  and  made  black  salts  of  the  ashes 
by  leaching  water  through  them  and  boiling  down 
the  lye.  We  could  sell  the  salts  at  three  dollars  and  a 
half  a  hundred  pounds.  The  three  of  us  working 
with  a  team  could  produce  from  one  hundred  and 
twenty  to  one  hundred  and  forty  pounds  a  week. 
Yet  we  thought  it  paid — there  in  Lickitysplit.  All 
over  the  hills  men  and  women  were  turning  their 
efforts  and  strength  into  these  slender  streams  of 
money  forever  flowing  toward  the  mortgagee. 

Mr.  Dunkelberg  had  seen  Benjamin  Grimshaw 
and  got  him  to  give  us  a  brief  extension.  They  had 
let  me  stay  out  of  school  to  work.  I  was  nearly  thir 
teen  years  old  and  rather  strong  and  capable.  I 
think  that  I  got  along  in  my  books  about  as  well  as 
I  could  have  done  in  our  little  school. 

One  day  in  December  of  that  year,  I  had  my  first 
trial  in  the  fuM  responsibility  of  man's  work.  I 


MY  SECOND  PERIL  163 

was  allowed  to  load  and  harness  and  hitch  up  and 
go  to  mill  without  assistance.  My  uncle  and  Purvis 
were  busy  with  the  chopping  and  we  were  out  of 
flour  and  meal.  It  took  a  lot  of  them  to  keep  the 
axes  going.  So  I  filled  two  sacks  with  corn  and  two 
with  wheat  and  put  them  into  the  box  wagon,  for 
the  ground  was  bare,  and  hitched  up  my  horses  and 
set  out.  Aunt  Deel  took  a  careful  look  at  the  main 
hitches  and  gave  me  many  a  caution  before  I  drove 
away.  She  said  it  was  a  shame  that  I  had  to  be 
"Grimshawed"  into  a  man's  work  at  my  age.  But  I 
was  elated  by  my  feeling  of  responsibility.  I  knew 
how  to  handle  horses  and  had  driven  at  the  drag 
and  plow  and  once,  alone,  to  the  post-office,  but  this 
was  my  first  long  trip  without  company.  I  had  taken 
my  ax  and  a  chain,  for  one  found  a  tree  in  the  road 
now  and  then  those  days,  and  had  to  trim  and  cut 
and  haul  it  aside.  It  was  a  drive  of  six  miles  to  the 
nearest  mill,  over  a  bad  road.  I  sat  on  two  cleated 
boards  placed  across  the  box,  with  a  blanket  over  me 
and  my  new  overcoat  and  mittens  on,  and  was  very 
comfortable  and  happy. 

I  had  taken  a  little  of  my  uncle's  chewing  tobacco 
out  of  its  paper  that  lay  on  a  shelf  in  the  cellarway, 
for  I  had  observed  that  my  uncle  generally  chewed 
when  he  was  riding.  I  tried  a  little  of  it  and  was 
very  sick  for  a  few  minutes. 

Having  recovered,  I  sang  all  the  songs  I  knew, 


164       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

which  were  not  many,  and  repeated  the  names  of  the 
presidents  and  divided  the  world  into  its  parts  and 
recited  the  principal  rivers  with  all  the  sources  and 
emptyings  of  the  latter  and  the  boundaries  of  the 
states  and  the  names  and  locations  of  their  capitals. 
It  amused  me  in  the  midst  of  my  loneliness  to  keep 
my  tongue  busy  and  I  exhausted  all  my  knowledge, 
which  included  a  number  of  declamations  from  the 
speeches  of  Otis,  Henry  and  Webster,  in  the  effort. 
Before  the  journey  was  half  over  I  had  taken  a  com 
plete  inventory  of  my  mental  effects.  I  repeat  that 
it  was  amusement — of  the  only  kind  available — and 
not  work  to  me. 

I  reached  the  mill  safely  and  before  the  grain  was 
ground  the  earth  and  the  sky  above  it  were  white 
with  snow  driving  down  in  a  cold,  stiff  wind  out  of 
the  northwest.  I  loaded  my  grists  and  covered  them 
with  a  blanket  and  hurried  away.  The  snow  came 
so  fast  that  it  almost  blinded  me.  There  were  times 
when  I  could  scarcely  see  the  road  or  the  horses. 
The  wind  came  colder  and  soon  it  was  hard  work  to 
hold  the  reins  and  keep  my  hands  from  freezing. 

Suddenly  the  wheels  began  jumping  over  rocks. 
The  horses  were  in  the  ditch.  I  knew  what  was  the 
matter,  for  my  eyes  had  been  filling  with  snow  and  I 
had  had  to  brush  them  often.  Of  course  the  team 
had  suffered  in  a  like  manner.  Before  I  could  stop 
I  heard  the  crack  of  a  felly  and  a  front  wheel 


MY  SECOND  PERIL  165 

dropped  to  its  hub.  I  checked  the  horses  and  jumped 
out  and  went  to  their  heads  and  cleared  their  eyes. 
The  snow  was  up  to  my  knees  then. 

It  seemed  as  if  all  the  clouds  in  the  sky  were  fall 
ing  to  the  ground  and  stacking  into  a  great,  fleecy 
cover  as  dry  as  chaff. 

We  were  there  where  the  road  drops  into  a  rocky 
hollow  near  the  edge  of  Butterfield's  woods.  They 
used  to  call  it  Moosewood  Hill  because  of  the  abun 
dance  of  moosewood  around  the  foot  of  it.  How  the 
thought  of  that  broken  wheel  smote  me !  It  was  our 
only  heavy  wagon,  and  we  having  to  pay  the  mort 
gage.  What  would  my  uncle  say?  The  query 
brought  tears  to  my  eyes. 

I  unhitched  and  led  my  horses  up  into  the  cover  of 
the  pines.  How  grateful  it  seemed,  for  the  wind 
was  slack  below  but  howling  in  the  tree-tops!  I 
knew  that  I  was  four  miles  from  home  and  knew 
not  how  I  was  to  get  there.  Chilled  to  the  bone,  I 
gathered  some  pitch  pine  and  soon  had  a  fire  going 
with  my  flint  and  tinder.  I  knew  that  I  could  mount 
one  of  the  horses  and  lead  the  other  and  reach  home 
probably.  But  there  was  the  grist.  We  needed  that ; 
I  knew  that  we  should  have  to  go  hungry  without 
the  grist.  It  would  get  wet  from  above  and  below 
if  I  tried  to  carry  it  on  the  back  of  a  horse.  I 
warmed  myself  by  the  fire  and  hitched  my  team  near 
it  so  as  to  thaw  the  frost  out  of  their  forelocks  and 


166      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

eyebrows.  I  felt  in  my  coat  pockets  and  found  a 
handful  of  nails — everybody  carried  nails  in  one 
pocket  those  days — and  I  remember  that  my  uncle's 
pockets  were  a  museum  of  bolts  and  nuts  and  screws 
and  washers. 

The  idea  occurred  to  me  that  I  would  make  a  kind 
of  sled  which  was  called  a  jumper. 

So  I  got  my  ax  out  of  the  wagon  and  soon  found 
a  couple  of  small  trees  with  the  right  crook  for  the 
forward  end  of  a  runner  and  cut  them  and  hewed 
their  bottoms  as  smoothly  as  I  could.  Then  I  made 
notches  in  them  near  the  top  of  their  crooks  and 
fitted  a  stout  stick  into  the  notches  and  secured  it 
with  nails  driven  by  the  ax-head.  Thus  I  got  a 
hold  for  my  evener.  That  done,  I  chopped  and 
hewed  an  arch  to  cross  the  middle  of  the  runners  and 
hold  them  apart  and  used  all  my  nails  to  secure  and 
brace  it.  I  got  the  two  boards  which  were  fastened 
together  and  constituted  my  wagon  seat  and  laid 
them  over  the  arch  and  front  brace.  How  to  make 
them  fast  was  my  worst  problem.  I  succeeded  in 
splitting  a  green  stick  to  hold  the  bolt  of  the  evener 
just  under  its  head  while  I  heated  its  lower  end  in 
the  fire  and  kept  its  head  cool  with  snow.  With  this 
I  burnt  a  hole  in  the  end  of  each  board  and  fastened 
them  to  the  front  brace  with  withes  of  moosewood. 

It  was  late  in  the  day  and  there  was  no  time  for 
the  slow  process  of  burning  more  holes,  so  I  notched 


MY  SECOND  PERIL  167 

the  other  ends  of  the  boards  and  lashed  them  to  the 
rear  brace  with  a  length  of  my  reins.  Then  I  retem- 
pered  my  bolt  and  brought  up  the  grist  and  chain  and 
fastened  the  latter  between  the  boards  in  the  middle 
of  the  front  brace,  hitched  my  team  to  the  chain  and 
set  out  again,  sitting  on  the  bags. 

It  was,  of  course,  a  difficult  journey,  for  my 
jumper  was  narrow.  The  snow  heaped  up  beneath 
me  and  now  and  then  I  and  my  load  were  rolled 
off  the  jumper.  When  the  drifts  were  more  than 
leg  deep  I  let  down  the  fence  and  got  around  them 
by  going  into  the  fields.  Often  I  stopped  to  clear 
the  eyes  of  the  horses — a  slow  task  to  be  done  with 
the  bare  hand — or  to  fling  my  palms  against  my 
shoulders  and  thus  warm  myself  a  little. 

It  was  pitch  dark  and  the  horses  wading  to  their 
bellies  and  the  snow  coming  faster  when  we  turned 
into  Rattleroad.  I  should  not  have  known  the  turn 
when  we  came  to  it,  but  a  horse  knows  more  than 
a  man  in  the  dark.  Soon  I  heard  a  loud  halloo  and 
knew  that  it  was  the  voice  of  Uncle  Peabody.  He 
had  started  out  to  meet  me  in  the  storm  and  Shep 
was  with  him. 

"Thank  God  I've  found  ye !"  he  shouted.  "I'm 
blind  and  tired  out  and  I  couldn't  keep  a  lantern 
goin'  to  save  me.  Are  ye  froze  ?" 

"I'm  all  right,  but  these  horses  are  awful  tired. 
Had  to  let  'em  rest  every  few  minutes." 


168      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

I  told  him  about  the  wagon — and  how  it  relieved 
me  to  hear  him  say : 

"As  long  as  you're  all  right,  boy,  I  ain't  goin'  to 
worry  'bout  the  ol'  wagon — not  a  bit.  Where'd  ye 
git  yer  jumper?" 

"Made  it  with  the  ax  and  some  nails,"  I  answered. 

I  didn't  hear  what  he  said  about  it  for  the  horses 
were  wallowing  and  we  had  to  stop  and  paw  and 
kick  the  snow  from  beneath  them  as  best  we  could 
before  it  was  possible  to  back  out  of  our  trouble. 
Soon  we  found  an  entrance  to  the  fields — our  own 
fields  not  far  from  the  house — where  Uncle  Peabody 
walked  ahead  and  picked  out  the  best  wading.  After 
we  got  to  the  barn  door  at  last  he  went  to  the  house 
and  lighted  his  lantern  and  came  back  with  it 
wrapped  in  a  blanket  and  Aunt  Deel  came  with  him. 

How  proud  it  made  me  to  hear  him  say : 

"Deel,  our  boy  is  a  man  now — made  this  jumper 
all  'lone  by  himself  an*  has  got  through  all  right." 

She  came  and  held  the  lantern  up  to  my  face  and 
looked  at  my  hands. 

"Well,  my  stars,  Bart!"  she  exclaimed  in  a  mo 
ment.  "I  thought  ye  would  freeze  up  solid — ayes — • 
poor  boy !" 

The  point  of  my  chin  and  the  lobes  of  my  ears  and 
one  finger  were  touched  and  my  aunt  rubbed  them 
with  snow  until  the  frost  was  out. 


MY  SECOND  PERIL  169 

We  carried  the  grist  in  and  Aunt  Deel  made  some 
pudding.  How  good  it  was  to  feel  the  warmth  of 
the  fire  and  of  the  hearts  of  those  who  loved  me! 
How  I  enjoyed  the  pudding  and  milk  and  bread  and 
butter ! 

"I  guess  you've  gone  through  the  second  peril 
that  ol'  Kate  spoke  of,"  said  Aunt  Deel  as  I  went 
up-stairs. 

Uncle  Peabody  went  out  to  look  at  the  horses. 

When  I  awoke  in  the  morning  I  observed  that 
Uncle  Peabody's  bed  had  not  been  slept  in.  I  hur 
ried  down  and  heard  that  our  off-horse  had  died 
in  the  night  of  colic.  Aunt  Deel  was  crying.  As 
he  saw  me  Uncle  Peabody  began  to  dance  a  jig  in 
the  middle  of  the  floor. 

"Balance  yer  partners!"  he  shouted.  "You  an* 
I  ain't  goin'  to  be  discouraged  if  all  the  hosses  die — 
be  we, -Bart?" 

"Never,"  I  answered. 

"That's  the  talk!  If  nec'sary  we'll  hitch  Purvis 
up  with  t'other  hoss  an'  git  our  haulin'  done." 

He  and  Purvis  roared  with  laughter  and  the 
strength  of  the  current  swept  me  along  with  them. 

"We're  the  luckiest  folks  in  the  world,  anyway," 
Uncle  Peabody  went  on.  "Bart's  alive  an'  there's 
three  feet  o'  snow  on  the  level  an'  more  comin'  an' 
it's  colder'n  Greenland." 


170       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

It  was  such  a  bitter  day  that  we  worked  only  three 
hours  and  came  back  to  the  house  and  played  Old 
Sledge  by  the  fireside. 

Rodney  Barnes  came  over  that  afternoon  and  said 
that  he  would  lend  us  a  horse  for  the  hauling. 

When  we  went  to  bed  that  night  Uncle  Peabody 
whispered : 

"Say,  oF  feller,  we  was  in  purty  bad  shape  this 
mornin'.  If  we  hadn't  'a'  backed  up  sudden  an'  took 
a  new  holt  I  guess  Aunt  Deel  would  'a'  caved  in 
complete  an*  we'd  all  been  a-bellerin'  like  a  lot  o'  lost 
cattle." 

We  had  good  sleighing  after  that  and  got  our 
bark  and  salts  to  market  and  earned  ninety-eight  dol 
lars.  But  while  we  got  our  pay  in  paper  "bank 
money,"  we  had  to  pay  our  debts  in  wheat,  salts  or 
corn,  so  that  our  earnings  really  amounted  to  only 
sixty-two  and  a  half  dollars,  my  uncle  said:  This 
more  than  paid  our  interest.  We  gave  the  balance 
and  ten  bushels  of  wheat  to  Mr.  Grimshaw  for  a 
spavined  horse,  after  which  he  agreed  to  give  us  at 
least  a  year's  extension  on  the  principal. 

We  felt  easy  then. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

MY  THIRD  PERIL 

""m  yTR.  PURVIS"  took  his  pay  in  salts  and 
1%/K  stayed  with  us  until  my  first  great 
JL  T  M  adventure  cut  him  off.  It  came  one 
July  day  when  I  was  in  my  sixteenth  year.  He  be 
haved  badly,  and  I  as  any  normal  boy  would  have 
done  who  had  had  my  schooling  in  the  candle-light. 
We  had  kept  Grimshaw  from  our  door  by  paying  in 
terest  and  the  sum  of  eighty  dollars  on  the  principal. 
It  had  been  hard  work  to  live  comfortably  and  carry 
the  burden  of  debt.  Again  Grimshaw  had  begun  to 
press  us.  My  uncle  wanted  to  get  his  paper  and 
learn,  if  possible,  when  the  Senator  was  expected  in 
Canton. 

So  he  gave  me  permission  to  ride  with  Purvis  to 
the  post-office — a  distance  of  three  miles — to  get 
the  mail.  Purvis  rode  in  our  only  saddle  and  I  bare 
back,  on  a  handsome  white  filly  which  my  uncle  had 
given  me  soon  after  she  was  foaled.  I  had  fed  and 
petted  and  broken  and  groomed  her  and  she  had 
grown  so  fond  of  me  that  my  whistled  call  would 
bring  her  galloping  to  my  side  from  the  remotest 

171 


172      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

reaches  of  the  pasture.  A  chunk  of  sugar  or  an  ear 
of  corn  or  a  pleasant  grooming  always  rewarded  her 
fidelity.  She  loved  to  have  me  wash  her  legs  and 
braid  her  mane  and  rub  her  coat  until  it  glowed,  and 
she  carried  herself  proudly  when  I  was  on  her  back. 
I  had  named  her  Sally  because  that  was  the  only 
name  which  seemed  to  express  my  fondness. 

"Mr.  Purvis"  was  not  an  experienced  rider.  My 
filly  led  him  at  a  swift  gallop  over  the  hills  and  I 
heard  many  a  muttered  complaint  behind  me,  but  she 
liked  a  free  head  when  we  took  the  road  together 
and  I  let  her  have  her  way. 

Coming  back  we  fell  in  with  another  rider  who 
had  been  resting  at  Seaver's  little  tavern  through  the 
heat  of  the  day.  He  was  a  traveler  on  his  way  to 
Canton  and  had  missed  the  right  trail  and  wandered 
far  afield.  He  had  a  big  military  saddle  with  bags 
and  shiny  brass  trimmings  and  a  pistol  in  a  holster, 
all  of  which  appealed  to  my  eye  and  interest.  The 
filly  was  a  little  tired  and  the  stranger  and  I  were 
riding  abreast  at  a  walk  while  Purvis  trailed  behind 
us.  The  sun  had  set  and  as  we  turned  the  top  of  a 
long  hill  the  dusk  was  lighted  with  a  rich,  golden 
glow  on  the  horizon  far  below  us. 

We  heard  a  quick  stir  in  the  bushes  by  the  road 
side. 

"What's  that?"  Purvis  demanded  in  a  half-whis 
per  of  excitement.  We  stopped. 


MY  THIRD  PERIL  173 

Then  promptly  a  voice — a  voice  which  I  did  not 
recognize — broke  the  silence  with  these  menacing 
words  sharply  spoken : 

"Your  money  or  your  life !" 

"Mr.  Purvis"  whirled  his  horse  and  lashed  him  up 
the  hill.  Things  happened  quickly  in  the  next  second 
or  two.  Glancing  backward  I  saw  him  lose  a  stirrup 
and  fall  and  pick  himself  up  and  run  as  if  his  life  de 
pended  on  it.  I  saw  the  stranger  draw  his  pistol. 
A  gun  went  off  in  the  edge  of  the  bushes  close  by. 
The  flash  of  fire  from  its  muzzle  leaped  at  the  stran 
ger.  The  horses  reared  and  plunged  and  mine  threw 
me  in  a  clump  of  small  popples  by  the  roadside  and 
dashed  down  the  hill.  All  this  had  broken  into  the 
peace  of  a  summer  evening  on  a  lonely  road  and  the 
time  in  which  it  had  happened  could  be  measured, 
probably,  by  ten  ticks  of  the  watch. 

My  fall  on  the  stony  siding  had  stunned  me  and  I 
lay  for  three  or  four  seconds,  as  nearly  as  I  can  esti 
mate  it,  in  a  strange  and  peaceful  dream.  Why  did 
I  dream  of  Amos  Grimshaw  coming  to  visit  me, 
again,  and  why,  above  all,  should  it  have  seemed  to 
me  that  enough  things  wrere  said  and  done  in  that 
little  flash  of  a  dream  to  fill  a  whole  day — enough  of 
talk  and  play  and  going  and  coming,  the  whole  end 
ing  with  a  talk  on  the  haymow.  Again  and  again 
I  have  wondered  about  that  dream.  I  came  to  and 
lifted  my  head  and  my  consciousness  swung  back 


174      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

upon  the  track  of  memory  and  took  up  the  thread  of 
the  day,  the  briefest  remove  from  where  it  had 
broken. 

I  peered  through  the  bushes.  The  light  was  un 
changed.  I  could  see  quite  clearly.  The  horses 
were  gone.  It  was  very  still.  The  stranger  lay 
helpless  in  the  road  and  a  figure  was  bending  over 
him.  It  was  a  man  with  a  handkerchief  hanging 
over  his  face  with  holes  cut  opposite  his  eyes.  He 
had  not  seen  my  fall  and  thought,  as  I  learned  later, 
that  I  had  ridden  away. 

His  gun  lay  beside  him,  its  stock  toward  me.  I 
observed  that  a  piece  of  wood  had  been  split  off  the 
lower  side  of  the  stock.  I  jumped  to  my  feet  and 
seized  a  stone  to  hurl  at  him.  As  I  did  so  the  robber 
fled  with  gun  in  hand.  If  the  gun  had  been  loaded 
I  suppose  that  this  little  history  would  never  have 
been  written.  Quickly  I  hurled  the  stone  at  the  rob 
ber.  I  remember  it  was  a  smallish  stone  about  the 
size  of  a  hen's  egg.  I  saw  it  graze  the  side  of  his 
head.  I  saw  his  hand  touch  the  place  which  the 
stone  had  grazed.  He  reeled  and  nearly  fell  and 
recovered  himself  and  ran  on,  but  the  little  stone 
had  put  the  mark  of  Cain  upon  him. 

The  stranger  lay  still  in  the  road.  I  lifted  his 
head  and  dropped  it  quickly  with  a  strange  sickness. 
The  feel  of  it  and  the  way  it  fell  back  upon  the 


MY  THIRD  PERIL  175 

ground  when  I  let  go  scared  me,  for  I  knew  that  he 
was  dead.  The  dust  around  him  was  wet.  I  ran 
down  the  hill  a  few  steps  and  stopped  and  whistled 
to  my  filly.  I  could  hear  her  answering  whinny 
far  down  the  dusty  road  and  then  her  hoofs  as  she 
galloped  to\vard  me.  She  came  within  a  few  feet 
of  me  and  stood  snorting.  I  caught  and  mounted 
her  and  rode  to  the  nearest  house  for  help.  On  the 
way  I  saw  why  she  had  stopped.  A  number  of 
horses  wrere  feeding  on  the  roadside  near  the  log 
house  where  Andrew  Crampton  lived.  Andrew  had 
just  unloaded  some  hay  and  was  backing  out  of  his 
barn.  I  hitched  my  filly  and  jumped  on  the  rack 
saying : 

"Drive  up  the  road  as  quick  as  you  can.  A  man 
has  been  murdered." 

What  a  fearful  word  it  was  that  I  had  spoken! 
What  a  panic  it  made  in  the  little  dooryard!  The 
man  gasped  and  jerked  the  reins  and  shouted  to  his 
horses  and  began  swearing.  The  woman  uttered 
a  little  scream  and  the  children  ran  crying  to  her 
side.  Now  for  the  first  time  I  felt  the  dread  signifi 
cance  of  word  and  deed.  I  had  had  no  time  to  think 
of  it  before.  I  thought  of  the  robber  fleeing,  terror- 
stricken,  in  the  growing  darkness. 

The  physical  facts  which  are  further  related  to 
this  tragedy  are  of  little  moment  to  me  now.  The 


176       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

stranger  was  dead  and  we  took  his  body  to  our  home 
and  my  uncle  set  out  for  the  constable.  Over  and 
over  again  that  night  I  told  the  story  of  the  shooting. 
We  went  to  the  scene  of  the  tragedy  with  lanterns 
and  fenced  it  off  and  put  some  men  on  guard  there. 

How  the  event  itself  and  all  that  hurrying  about  in 
the  dark  had  shocked  and  excited  me !  The  whole 
theater  of  life  had  changed.  Its  audience  had  sud 
denly  enlarged  and  was  rushing  over  the  stage  and 
a  kind  of  terror  was  in  every  face  and  voice.  There 
was  a  red-handed  villain  behind  the  scenes,  now,  and 
how  many  others,  I  wondered.  Men  were  no  longer 
as  they  had  been.  Even  the  God  to  whom  I  prayed 
was  different.  As  I  write  the  sounds  and  shadows 
of  that  night  are  in  my  soul  again.  I  see  its  gather 
ing  gloom.  I  hear  its  rifle  shot  which  started  all  the 
galloping  hoofs  and  swinging  lanterns  and  flitting 
shadows  and  hysterical  profanity.  In  the  morning 
they  found  the  robber's  footprints  in  the  damp  dirt 
of  the  road  and  measured  them.  The  whole  coun 
tryside  was  afire  with  excitement  and  searching  the 
woods  and  fields  for  the  highwayman. 

"Mr.  Purvis,"  who  had  lost  confidence  suddenly 
in  the  whole  world,  had  been  found,  soon  after  day 
light  next  morning,  under  a  haycock  in  the  field  of  a 
farmer  who  was  getting  in  his  hay.  Our  hired  man 
rose  up  and  reported  in  fearful  tones.  A  band  of 
robbers — not  one,  or  two,  even,  but  a  band  of  them 


MY  THIBD  PERIL  177 

• — had  chased  him  up  the  road  and  one  of  their 
bullets  had  torn  the  side  of  his  trousers,  in  support 
of  which  assertion  he  showed  the  tear.  With  his 
able  assistance  we  see  at  a  glance  both  the  quality 
and  the  state  of  mind  prevailing  among  the  humbler 
citizens  of  the  countryside.  They  were,  in  a  way, 
children  whose  cows  had  never  recovered  from  the 
habit  of  jumping  over  the  moon  and  who  still  wor 
shiped  at  the  secret  shrine  of  Jack  the  Giant  Killer. 

The  stranger  was  buried.  There  was  nothing 
upon  him  to  indicate  his  name  or  residence.  Weeks 
passed  with  no  news  of  the  man  who  had  slain  him. 
I  had  told  of  the  gun  with  a  piece  of  wood  broken 
out  of  its  stock,  but  no  one  knew  of  any  such  weapon 
in  or  near  Lickitysplit. 

One  day  Uncle  Peabody  and  I  drove  up  to  Grim- 
shaw's  to  make  a  payment  of  money.  I  remember 
it  was  gold  and  silver  which  we  carried  in  a  little 
sack.  I  asked  where  Amos  was  and  Mrs.  Grirnshaw 
— a  timid,  tired-looking,  bony  little  woman  who 
was  never  seen  outside  of  her  own  house — said  that 
he  was  working  out  on  the  farm  of  a  Mr.  Beekman 
near  Plattsburg.  He  had  gone  over  on  the  stage  late 
in  June  to  hire  out  for  the  haying.  I  observed  that 
my  uncle  looked  very  thoughtful  as  we  rode  back 
home  and  had  little  to  say. 

"You  never  had  any  idee  who  that  robber  was, 
did  ye  ?"  he  asked  by  and  by. 


178       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

"No — I  could  not  see  plain — it  was  so  dusk,"  I 
said. 

"I  think  Purvis  lied  about  the  gang  that  chased 
him,"  he  said.  "Mebbe  he  thought  they  was  after 
him.  In  rny  opinion  he  was  so  scairt  he  couldn't  'a' 
told  a  hennock  from  a  handsaw  anyway.  I  think  it 
was  just  one  man  that  did  that  job." 

How  well  I  remember  the  long  silence  that  fol 
lowed  and  the  distant  voices  that  flashed  across  it 
now  and  then — the  call  of  the  mire  drum  in  the 
marshes  and  the  songs  of  the  winter  wren  and  the 
swamp  robin.  It  was  a  solemn  silence. 

The  swift  words,  "Your  money  or  your  life," 
came  out  of  my  memory  and  rang  in  it.  I  felt  its 
likeness  to  the  scolding  demands  of  Mr.  Grimshaw, 
who  was  forever  saying  in  effect : 

"Your  money  or  your  home !" 

That  was  like  demanding  our  lives  because  we 
couldn't  live  without  our  home.  Our  all  was  in  it. 
Mr.  Grimshaw's  gun  was  the  power  he  had  over  us, 
and  what  a  terrible  weapon  it  was !  I  credit  him  with 
never  realizing  how  terrible. 

We  came  to  the  sand-hills  and  then  Uncle  Peabody 
broke  the  silence  by  saying : 

"I  wouldn't  give  fifty  cents  for  as  much  o'  this 
land  as  a  bird  could  fly  around  in  a  day." 

Then  for  a  long  time  I  heard  only  the  sound  of 
feet  and  wheels  muffled  in  the  sand,  while  my  uncle 


MY  THIRD  PERIL  179 

sat  looking  thoughtfully  at  the  siding.  When  I 
spoke  to  him  he  seemed  not  to  hear  me. 

Before  we  reached  home  I  knew  what  was  in 
his  mind,  but  neither  dared  to  speak  of  it. 

People  came  from  Canton  and  all  the  neighboring 
villages  to  see  and  talk  with  me  and  among  them 
were  the  Dunkelbergs.  Unfounded  tales  of  my 
bravery  had  gone  abroad. 

Sally  seemed  to  be  very  glad  to  see  me.  We 
walked  down  to  the  brook  and  up  into  the  maple 
grove  and  back  through  the  meadows. 

The  beauty  of  that  perfect  day  was  upon  her.  I 
remember  that  her  dress  was  like  the  color  of  its 
fire-weed  blossoms  and  that  the  blue  of  its  sky  was 
in  her  eyes  and  the  yellow  of  its  sunlight  in  her  hair 
and  the  red  of  its  clover  in  her  cheeks.  I  remember 
how  the  August  breezes  played  with  her  hair,  fling 
ing  its  golden  curving  strands  about  her  neck  and 
shoulders  so  that  it  touched  my  face,  now  and  then, 
as  we  walked!  Somehow  the  rustle  of  her  dress 
started  a  strange  vibration  in  my  spirit  I  put  my 
arm  around  her  waist  and  she  put  her  arm  around 
mine  as  we  ran  along.  A  curious  feeling  came  over 
me.  I  stopped  and  loosed  my  arm. 

"It's  very  warm!"  I  said  as  I  picked  a  stalk  of 
fire-weed. 

What  was  there  about  the  girl  which  so  thrilled 
me  with  happiness  ? 


180      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

She  turned  away  and  felt  the  ribbon  by  which  her 
hair  was  gathered  at  the  back  of  her  head. 

I  wanted  to  kiss  her  as  I  had  done  years  before, 
but  I  was  afraid. 

She  turned  suddenly  and  said  to  me : 

"A  penny  for  your  thoughts." 

"You  won't  laugh  at  me?" 

"No." 

"I  was  thinking  how  beautiful  you  are  and  how 
homely  I  am." 

"You  are  not  homely.  I  like  your  eyes  and  your 
teeth  are  as  white  and  even  as  they  can  be  and  you 
are  a  big,  brave  boy,  too." 

Oh,  the  vanity  of  youth!  I  had  never  been  so 
happy  as  then. 

"I  don't  believe  I'm  brave,"  I  said,  blushing  as  we 
walked  along  beside  the  wheat-fields  that  were  just 
turning  yellow.  "I  was  terribly  scared  that  night 
— honest  I  was !" 

"But  you  didn't  run  away." 

"I  didn't  think  of  it  or  I  guess  I  would  have." 

After  a  moment  of  silence  I  ventured : 

"I  guess  you've  never  fallen  in  love." 

"Yes,  I  have." 

"Who  with?" 

"I  don't  think  I  dare  tell  you,"  she  answered, 
slowly,  looking  down  as  she  walked. 


MY  THIRD  PERIL  181 

"I'll  tell  you  who  I  love  if  you  wish,"  I  said. 

"Who?" 

"You."  I  whispered  the  word  and  was  afraid  she 
would  laugh  at  me,  but  she  didn't.  She  stopped  and 
looked  very  serious  and  asked : 

"What  makes  you  think  you  love  me?" 

"Well,  when  you  go  away  I  shall  think  an*  think 
about  you  an'  feel  as  I  do  when  the  leaves  an'  the 
flowers  are  all  gone  an'  I  know  it's  going  to  be  win 
ter,  an'  I  guess  next  Sunday  Shep  an'  I  will  go  down 
to  the  brook  an'  come  back  through  the  meadow,  an' 
I'll  kind  o'  think  it  all  over — what  you  said  an'  what 
I  said  an'  how  warm  the  sun  shone  an'  how  purty 
the  wheat  looked,  an'  I  guess  I'll  hear  that  little  bird 
singing." 

We  stopped  and  listened  to  the  song  of  a  bird — I 
do  not  remember  what  bird  it  was — and  then  she 
whispered : 

"Will  you  love  me  always  and  forever?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered  in  the  careless  way  of  youth. 

She  stopped  and  looked  into  my  eyes  and  I  looked 
into  hers. 

"May  I  kiss  you?"  I  asked,  and  afraid,  with 
cheeks  burning. 

She  turned  away  and  answered :  "I  guess  you  can 
if  you  want  to." 

Now  I  seem  to  be  in  Aladdin's  tower  and  to  see 


182      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

her  standing  so  red  and  graceful  and  innocent  in  the 
sunlight,  and  that  strange  fire  kindled  by  our  kisses 
warms  my  blood  again. 

It  was  still  play,  although  not  like  that  of  the 
grand  ladies  and  the  noble  gentlemen  in  which  we 
had  once  indulged,  but  still  it  was  play — the  sweetest 
and  dearest  kind  of  play  which  the  young  may  en 
joy,  and  possibly,  also,  the  most  dangerous. 

She  held  my  hand  very  tightly  as  we  went  on  and 
I  told  her  of  my  purpose  to  be  a  great  man. 

My  mind  was  in  a  singular  condition  of  simplicity 
those  days.  It  was  due  to  the  fact  that  I  had  had  no 
confidant  in  school  and  had  been  brought  up  in  a 
home  where  there  was  neither  father  nor  mother 
nor  brother. 

That  night  I  heard  a  whispered  conference  below 
after  I  had  gone  up-stairs.  I  knew  that  something 
was  coming  and  wondered  what  it  might  be.  Soon 
Uncle  Peabody  came  up  to  our  little  room  looking 
highly  serious.  He  sat  down  on  the  side  of  his  bed 
with  his  hands  clasped  firmly  under  one  knee,  rais 
ing  his  foot  below  it  well  above  the  floor.  He  re 
minded  me  of  one  carefully  holding  taut  reins  on  a 
horse  of  a  bad  reputation.  I  sat,  half  undressed  and 
rather  fearful,  looking  into  his  face.  As  I  think  of 
the  immaculate  soul  of  the  boy,  I  feel  a  touch  of 
pathos  in  that  scene.  I  think  that  he  felt  it,  for  I 
remember  that  his  whisper  trembled  a  little  as  he 


MY  THIRD  PERIL  183 

began  to  tell  me  why  men  are  strong  and  women  are 
beautiful  and  given  to  men  in  marriage. 

"You'll  be  falling  in  love  one  o'  these  days/'  he 
said.  "It's  natural  ye  should.  You  remember  Rovin' 
Kate?"  he  asked  by  and  by. 

"Yes/'  I  answered. 

"Some  day  when  you're  a  little  older  I'll  tell  ye 
her  story  an'  you'll  see  what  happens  when  men  an* 
\vomen  break  the  law  o'  God.  Here's  Mr.  Wright's 
letter.  Aunt  Deel  asked  me  to  give  it  to  you  to  keep. 
You're  old  enough  now  an*  you'll  be  goin*  away  to 
School  before  long,  I  guess." 

I  took  the  letter  and  read  again  the  superscription 
on  its  envelope : 

To  Master  Barton  Baynes — 

(To  be  opened  when  he  leaves  home  to 
go  to  school.) 

I  put  it  away  in  the  pine  box  with  leather  hinges 
on  its  cover  which  Uncle  Peabody  had  made  for  me 
and  wondered  again  what  it  was  all  about,  and 
again  that  night  I  broke  camp  and  moved  further 
into  the  world  over  the  silent  trails  of  knowledge. 

Uncle  Peabody  went  away  for  a  few  days  after 
the  harvesting.  He  had  gone  afoot,  I  knew  not 
where.  He  returned  one  afternoon  in  a  buggy  with 
the  great  Michael  Hacket  of  the  Canton  Academy. 


184      THE  LIGHT  rtf  THE  CLEARING 

Hacket  was  a  big,  brawny,  red-haired,  kindly  Irish 
man  with  a  merry  heart  and  tongue,  the  latter  hav 
ing  a  touch  of  the  brogue  of  the  green  isle  which  he 
had  never  seen,  for  he  had  been  born  in  Massachu 
setts  and  had  got  his  education  in  Harvard.  He 
was  then  a  man  of  forty. 

"You're  coming  to  me  this  fall,"  he  said  as  he  put 
his  hand  on  my  arm  and  gave  me  a  little  shake. 
"Lad !  you've  got  a  big  pair  of  shoulders !  Ye  shall 
live  in  my  house  an'  help  with  the  chores  if  ye 
wish  to." 

"That'll  be  grand,"  said  Uncle  Peabody,  but,  as 
to  myself,  just  then,  I  knew  not  what  to  think  of  it. 

We  were  picking  up  potatoes  in  the  field. 

"Without  'taters  an'  imitators  this  world  would 
be  a  poor  place  to  live  in,"  said  Mr.  Hacket.  "Some 
imitate  the  wise — thank  God! — some  the  foolish — 
bad  'cess  to  the  devil !" 

As  he  spoke  we  heard  a  wonderful  bird  song  in  a 
tall  spruce  down  by  the  brook. 

"Do  ye  hear  the  little  silver  bells  in  yon  tower?" 
he  asked. 

As  we  listened  a  moment  he  whispered :  "It's  the 
song  o'  the  Hermit  Thrush.  I  wonder,  now,  whom 
he  imitates.  I  think  the  first  one  o'  them  must  'a' 
come  on  Christmas  night  an'  heard  the  angels  sing 
an*  remembered  a  little  o'  it  so  he  could  give  it  to 
his  children  an'  keep  it  in  the  world." 


MY  THIHD  PERIL  185 

i 

I  looked  up  into  the  man's  face  and  liked  him,  and 
after  that  I  looked  forward  to  the  time  when  I 
should  know  him  and  his  home. 

Shep  was  rubbing  his  neck  fondly  on  the  school 
master's  boot. 

"That  dog  couldn't  think  more  o'  me  if  I  were  a 
bone,"  he  said  as  he  went  away. 


END  OF  BOOK  ONE 


BOOK  TWO 

Which  is  the  Story  of  the  Principal 
Witness 


CHAPTER  IX 

IN  WHICH  I  MEET  OTHER  GREAT   MEN 

IT  was  a  sunny  day  in  late  September  on  which 
Aunt  Deel  and  Uncle  Peabody  took  me  and  my 
little  pine  chest  with  all  my  treasures  in  it  to  the 
village  where  I  was  to  go  to  school  and  live  with 
the  family  of  Mr.  Michael  Hacket,  the  schoolmaster. 
I  was  proud  of  the  chest,  now  equipped  with  iron 
hinges  and  a  hasp  and  staple.  Aunt  Deel  had 
worked  hard  to  get  me  ready,  sitting  late  at  her 
loom  to  weave  cloth  for  my  new  suit,  which  a  trav 
eling  tailor  had  fitted  and  made  for  me.  I  remem 
ber  that  the  breeches  were  of  tow  and  that  they 
scratched  my  legs  and  made  me  very  uncomfortable, 
but  I  did  not  complain.  My  uncle  used  to  say  that 
nobody  with  tow  breeches  on  him  could  ride  a  horse 
without  being  thrown — they  pricked  so. 

The  suit  which  I  had  grown  into — "the  Potsdam 
clothes,"  we  called  them  often,  but  more  often  "the 
boughten  clothes" — had  been  grown  out  of  and  left 
behind  in  a  way  of  speaking.  I  had  an  extra  good- 
looking  pair  of  cowhide  boots,  as  we  all  agreed, 
v;hich  John  Wells,  the  cobbler,  had  made  for  me. 

189 


190      THE  EIGHT  iisr  THE  CLEARING 

True,  I  had  my  doubts  about  them,  but  we  could 
afford  no  better. 

When  the  chest  was  about  full,  I  remember  that 
my  aunt  brought  something  wrapped  in  a  sheet  of 
the  St.  Lawrence  Republican  and  put  it  into  my 
hands. 

"There  are  two  dozen  cookies  an*  some  dried 
meat,"  said  she.  "Ayes,  I  thought  mebbe  you'd  like 
'em — if  you  was  hungry  some  time  between  meals. 
Wait  a  minute." 

She  went  to  her  room  and  Uncle  Peabody  and  I 
waited  before  we  shut  the  hasp  with  a  wooden  peg 
driven  into  its  staple. 

Aunt  Deel  returned  promptly  with  the  Indian 
Book  in  her  hands. 

"There,"  said  she,  "you  might  as  well  have  it — 
ayes ! — you're  old  enough  now.  You'll  enjoy  read- 
in'  it  sometimes  in  the  evenin',  mebbe — ayes !  Please 
be  awful  careful  of  it,  Bart,  for  it  was  a  present 
from  my  mother  to  me — ayes  it  was !" 

How  tenderly  she  held  and  looked  at  the  sacred 
heirloom  so  carefully  stitched  into  its  cover  of  faded 
linen.  It  was  her  sole  legacy.  Tears  came  to  my 
eyes  as  I  thought  of  her  generosity — greater,  far 
greater  than  that  which  has  brought  me  gifts  of 
silver  and  gold — although  my  curiosity  regarding 
the  Indian  Book  had  abated,  largely,  for  I  had  taken 
many  a  sly  peek  at  it.  Therein  I  had  read  how 


OTHER  GREAT  MEN  191 

Captain  Baynes — my  great  grandfather — had  been 
killed  by  the  Indians. 

I  remember  the  sad  excitement  of  that  ride  to  the 
village  and  all  the  words  of  advice  and  counsel 
spoken  by  my  aunt. 

"Don't  go  out  after  dark,"  said  she.  "I'm  'fraid 
some  o'  them  rowdies'll  pitch  on  ye." 

"If  they  do  I  guess  they'll  be  kind  o'  surprised," 
said  Uncle  Peabody. 

"I  don't  want  him  to  fight." 

"If  it's  nec'sary,  I  believe  in  fightin'  tooth  an* 
nail,"  my  uncle  maintained. 

I  remember  looking  in  vain  for  Sally  as  we  passed 
the  Dunkelbergs'.  I  remember  my  growing  loneli 
ness  as  the  day  wore  on  and  how  Aunt  Deel  stood 
silently  buttoning  my  coat  with  tears  rolling  down 
her  cheeks  while  I  leaned  back  upon  the  gate  in 
front  of  the  Hacket  house,  on  Ashery  Lane,  trying 
to  act  like  a  man  and  rather  ashamed  of  my  poor 
success.  It  reminded  me  of  standing  in  the  half- 
bushel  measure  and  trying  in  vain,  as  I  had  more 
than  once,  to  shoulder  the  big  bag  of  corn.  Uncle 
Peabody  stood  surveying  the  sky  in  silence  with  his 
back  toward  us.  He  turned  and  nervously  blew 
out  his  breath.  His  lips  trembled  a  little  as  he  said. 

"I  dunno  but  what  it's  goin'  to  rain." 

I  watched  them  as  they  walked  to  the  tavern 
sheds,  both  looking  down  at  the  ground  and  going 


192       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

rather  unsteadily.  Oh,  the  look  of  that  beloved  pair 
as  they  walked  away  from  me! — the  look  of  their 
leaning  heads !  Their  silence  and  the  sound  of  their 
footsteps  are,  somehow,  a  part  of  the  picture  which 
has  hung  all  these  years  in  my  memory. 

Suddenly  I  saw  a  man  go  reeling  by  in  the  middle 
of  the  road.  His  feet  swung.  They  did  not  rise 
and  reach  forward  and  touch  the  ground  according 
to  the  ancient  habit  of  the  human  foot.  They  swung 
sideways  and  rose  high  and  each  crossed  the  line  of 
his  flight  a  little,  as  one  might  say,  when  it  came  to 
the  ground,  for  the  man's  movements  reminded  me 
of  the  aimless  flight  of  a  sporting  swallow.  He  zig 
zagged  from  one  side  of  the  street  to  the  other.  He 
caught  my  eye  just  in  time  and  saved  me  from 
breaking  down.  I  watched  him  until  he  swung 
around  a  corner.  Only  once  before  had  I  seen  a 
man  drunk  and  walking,  although  I  had  seen  certain 
of  our  neighbors  riding  home  drunk — so  drunk  that 
I  thought  their  horses  were  ashamed  of  them,  being 
always  steaming  hot  and  in  a  great  hurry. 

Sally  Dunkelberg  and  her  mother  came  along  and 
said  that  they  were  glad  I  had  come  to  school.  I 
could  not  talk  to  them  and  seeing  my  trouble,  they 
went  on,  Sally  waving  her  hand  to  me  as  they  turned 
the  corner  below.  I  felt  ashamed  of  myself.  Sud 
denly  I  heard  the  door  open  behind  me  and  the  voice 
of  Mr.  Hacket : 


OTHER  GREAT  MEN  193 

"Bart,"  he  called,  "I've  a  friend  here  who  has 
something  to  say  to  you.  Come  in.*' 

I  turned  and  went  into  the  house. 

"Away  with  sadness — laddie  buck !"  he  exclaimed 
as  he  took  his  violin  from  its  case  while  I  sat  wiping 
my  eyes.  "Away  with  sadness!  She  often  raps  at 
my  door,  and  while  I  try  not  to  be  rude,  I  always 
pretend  to  be  very  busy.  Just  a  light  word  o'  recog 
nition  by  way  o'  common  politeness!  Then  laugh, 
if  ye  can  an'  do  it  quickly,  lad,  an'  she  will  pass  on." 

The  last  words  were  spoken  in  a  whisper,  with 
one  hand  on  my  breast. 

He  tuned  the  strings  and  played  the  Fisher's 
Hornpipe.  What  a  romp  of  merry  music  filled  the 
house!  I  had  never  heard  the  like  and  was  soon 
smiling  at  him  as  he  played.  His  bow  and  fingers 
flew  in  the  wild  frolic  of  the  Devil's  Dream.  It  led 
me  out  of  my  sadness  into  a  world  all  new  to  me. 

"Now,  God  bless  your  soul,  boy !"  he  exclaimed, 
by  and  by,  as  he  put  down  his  instrument.  "We 
•shall  have  a  good  time  together — that  we  will.  Not 
a  stroke  o'  work  this  day!  Come,  I  have  a  guide 
here  that  will  take  us  down  to  the  land  o'  the 
fairies." 

Then  with  his  microscope  he  showed  me  into  the 
wonder  world  of  littleness  of  which  I  had  had  no 
knowledge. 

"The  microscope  is  like  the  art  o'  the  teacher,"  he 


194       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

said.  "I've  known  a  good  teacher  to  take  a  brain  no 
bigger  than  a  fly's  foot  an*  make  it  visible  to  the 
naked  eye." 

One  of  the  children,  of  which  there  were  four  in 
the  Hacket  home,  called  us  to  supper.  Mrs.  Hacket, 
a  stout  woman  with  a  red  and  kindly  face,  sat  at  one 
end  of  the  table,  and  between  them  were  the  children 
— Mary,  a  pretty  daughter  of  seventeen  years;  Mag 
gie,  a  six-year-old;  Ruth,  a  delicate  girl  of  seven, 
and  John,  a  noisy,  red- faced  boy  of  five.  The  chairs 
were  of  plain  wood — like  the  kitchen  chairs  of  to 
day.  In  the  middle  of  the  table  was  an  empty  one 
— painted  green.  Before  he  sat  down  Mr.  Hacket 
put  his  hand  on  the  back  of  this  chair  and  said : 

"A  merry  heart  to  you,  Michael  Henry." 

I  wondered  at  the  meaning  of  this,  but  dared  not 
to  ask.  The  oldest  daughter  acted  as  a  kind  of  mod 
erator  with  the  others. 

"Mary  is  the  constable  of  this  house,  with  power 
to  arrest  and  hale  into  court  for  undue  haste  or 
rebellion  or  impoliteness,"  Mr.  Hacket  explained. 

"I  believe  that  Sally  Dunkelberg  is  your  friend," 
he  said  to  me  presently. 

"Yes,  sir,"  I  answered. 

"A  fine  slip  of  a  girl  that  and  a  born  scholar.  I 
saw  you  look  at  her  as  the  Persian  looks  at  the  ris 
ing  sun." 


OTHER  GREAT  MEN  195 

I  blushed  and  Mary  and  her  mother  and  the  boy 
John  looked  at  me  and  laughed. 

"Pner  pulcherrunc!"  Mr.  Hacket  exclaimed  with 
a  kindly  smile. 

Uncle  Peabody  would  have  called  it  a  "stout 
snag."  The  schoolmaster  had  hauled  it  out  of  his 
brain  very  deftly  and  chucked  it  down  before  me  in 
a  kind  of  challenge. 

"What  does  that  mean?"  I  asked. 

"You  shall  know  in  a  week,  my  son,"  he  an 
swered.  "I  shall  put  you  into  the  Latin  class 
Wednesday  morning,  and  God  help  you  to  like  it 
as  well  as  you  like  Sally." 

Again  they  laughed  and  again  I  blushed. 

"Hold  up  yer  head,  my  brave  lad,"  he  went  on. 
"Ye've  a  perfect  right  to  like  Sally  if  ye've  a 
heart  to." 

He  sang  a  rollicking  ballad  of  which  I  remember 
only  the  refrain: 

A  lad  in  his  teens  will  never  know  beans  if  he  hasn't 
an  eye  for  the  girls. 

It  was  a  merry  supper,  and  when  it  ended  Mr. 
Hacket  rose  and  took  the  green  chair  from  the 
table,  exclaiming: 

"Michael  Henry,  God  bless  you !" 


196       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

Then  he  kissed  his  wife  and  said : 

"Maggie,  you  wild  rose  of  Erin!  I've  been  all 
day  in  the  study.  I  must  take  a  walk  or  I  shall  get 
an  exalted  abdomen.  One  is  badly  beaten  in  the 
race  o'  life  when  his  abdomen  gets  ahead  of  his 
toes.  Children,  keep  our  young  friend  happy  here 
until  I  come  back,  and  mind  you,  don't  forget  the 
good  fellow  in  the  green  chair." 

Mary  helped  her  mother  with  the  dishes,  while  I 
sat  with  a  book  by  the  fireside.  Soon  Mrs.  Hacket 
and  the  children  came  and  sat  down  with  me. 

"Let's  play  backgammon,"  Mary  proposed. 

"I  don't  want  to,"  said  John. 

"Don't  forget  Michael  Henry,"  she  reminded. 

"Who  is  Michael  Henry?"  I  asked. 

"Sure,  he's  the  boy  that  has  never  been  born," 
said  Mrs.  Hacket.  "He  was  to  be  the  biggest  and 
noblest  one  o*  them — kind  an*  helpful  an'  cheery 
hearted  an*  beloved  o'  God  above  all  the  others.  We 
try  to  live  up  to  him." 

He  seemed  to  me  a  very  strange  and  wonderful 
creature — this  invisible  occupant  of  the  green  chair. 

I  know  now  what  I  knew  not  then  that  Michael 
Henry  was  the  spirit  of  their  home — an  ideal  of 
which  the  empty  green  chair  was  a  constant  re 
minder. 

We  played  backgammon  and  Old  Maid  and  Ever 
lasting  until  Mr.  Hacket  returned. 


OTHER  GREAT  MEN  197 

He  sat  down  and  read  aloud  from  the  Letters  of 
an  Englishwoman  in  America. 

"Do  you  want  to  know  what  sleighing  is?"  she 
wrote.  "Set  your  chair  out  on  the  porch  on  a 
Christmas  day.  Put  your  feet  in  a  pail-full  of 
powdered  ice.  Have  somebody  jingle  a  bell  in  one 
ear  and  blow  into  the  other  with  a  bellows  and  you 
will  have  an  exact  idea  of  it." 

When  she  told  of  a  lady  who  had  been  horned  by 
a  large  insect  known  as  a  snapdragon,  he  laughed 
loudly  and  closed  the  book  and  said : 

"They  have  found  a  new  peril  of  American  life. 
It  is  the  gory  horn  of  the  snapdragon.  Added  to 
our  genius  for  boast  fulness  and  impiety,  it  is  a 
crowning  defect.  Ye  would  think  that  our  chief 
aim  was  the  cuspidor.  Showers  of  expectoration 
and  thunder  claps  o'  profanity  and  braggart  gales  o' 
Yankee  dialect! — that's  the  moral  weather  report 
that  she  sends  back  to  England.  We  have  faults 
enough,  God  knows,  but  we  have  something  else 
away  beneath  them  an'  none  o'  these  writers  has 
discovered  it." 

The  sealed  envelope  which  Mr.  Wright  had  left 
at  our  home,  a  long  time  before  that  day,  was  in  my 
pocket.  At  last  the  hour  had  come  when  I  could 
open  it  and  read  the  message  of  which  I  had  thought 
much  and  with  a  growing  interest. 

I  rose  and  said  that  I  should  like  to  go  to  my 


198      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

room.  Mr.  Racket  lighted  a  candle  and  took  me 
up-stairs  to  a  little1  room  where  my  chest  had  been 
deposited.  There  were,  in  the  room,  a  bed,  a  chair, 
a  portrait  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte  and  a  small  table 
on  which  were  a  dictionary,  a  Bible  and  a  number 
of  school  books. 

"These  were  Mary's  books,"  said  Mr.  Racket.  "I 
told  yer  uncle  that  ye  could  use  them  an'  welcome. 
There's  another  book  here  which  ye  may  study  if  ye 
think  it  worth  the  bother.  It's  a  worn  an'  tiresome 
book,  my  lad,  but  I  pray  God  ye  may  find  no  harm 
in  it.  Use  it  as  often  as  ye  will.  It  is  the  book  o' 
my  heart.  Ye  will  find  in  it  some  kind  o'  answer  to 
every  query  in  the  endless  flight  o'  them  that's  com 
ing  on,  an'  may  the  good  God  help  us  to  the  truth." 

He  turned  and  bade  me  good  night  and  went 
away  and  closed  the  door. 

I  sat  down  and  opened  the  sealed  envelope  with 
trembling  hands,  and  found  in  it  this  brief  note : 

"DEAR  PARTNER  :  I  want  you  to  ask  the  wisest 
man  you  know  to  explain  these  words  to  you.  I 
suggest  that  you  commit  them  to  memory  and  think 
often  of  their  meaning.  They  are  from  Job : 

'His  bones  are  full  of  the  sin  of  his  youth,  which 
shall  lie  down  with  him  in  the  dust.' 

I  believe  that  they  are  the  most  impressive  in  all  the 
literature  I  have  read. 

"Yours  truly, 

"SILAS  WRIGHT,  JR." 


OTHER  GREAT  MEN  199 

I  read  the  words  over  and  over  again,  but  knew 
not  their  meaning.  Sadly  and  slowly  I  got  ready 
for  bed.  I  missed  the  shingles  and  the  familiar 
rustle  of  the  popple  leaves  above  my  head  and  the 
brooding  silence  of  the  hills.  The  noises  of  the  vil 
lage  challenged  my  ear  after  I  had  put  out  my 
candle.  There  were  many  barking  dogs.  Some 
horsemen  passed,  with  a  creaking  of  saddle  leather, 
followed  by  a  wagon.  Soon  I  heard  running  feet 
and  eager  voices.  I  rose  and  looked  out  of  the 
open  window.  Men  were  hurrying  down  the  street 
with  lanterns. 

"He's  the  son  o'  Ben  Grimshaw,"  I  heard  one  of 
them  saying.  'They  caught  him  back  in  the  south 
woods  yesterday.  The  sheriff  said  that  he  tried  to 
run  away  when  he  saw  'em  coming. " 

What  was  the  meaning  of  this  ?  What  had  Amos 
Grimshaw  been  doing?  I  trembled  as  I  got  back 
into  bed — I  can  not  even  now  explain  why,  but  long 
ago  I  gave  up  trying  to  fathom  the  depths  of  the 
human  spirit  with  an  infinite  sea  beneath  it  crossed 
by  subtle  tides  and  currents.  We  see  only  the  straws 
on  the  surface. 

I  was  up  at  daylight  and  Mr.  Hacket  came  to  my 
door  while  I  was  dressing. 

"A  merry  day  to  you!"  he  exclaimed.  'Til  await 
you  below  and  introduce  you  to  the  humble  herds 
and  flocks  of  a  schoolmaster." 


200       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

I  went  with  him  while  he  fed  his  chickens  and  two 
small  shoats.  I  milked  the  cow  for  him,  and  to 
gether  we  drove  her  back  to  the  pasture.  Then  we 
split  some  wood  and  filled  the  boxes  by  the  fireplace 
and  the  kitchen  stove  and  raked  up  the  leaves  in  the 
dooryard  and  wheeled  them  away. 

"Now  you  know  the  duties  o'  your  office,"  said 
the  schoolmaster  as  we  went  in  to  breakfast. 

We  sat  down  at  the  table  with  the  family  and  I 
drew  out  my  letter  from  the  Senator  and  gave  it  to 
Mr.  Hacket  to  read. 

"The  Senator !  God  prosper  him !  I  hear  that  he 
came  on  the  Plattsburg  stage  last  night,"  he  said  as 
he  began  the  reading — an  announcement  which 
caused  me  and  the  children  to  clap  our  hands  with 

joy. 

Mr.  Hacket  thoughtfully  repeated  the  words  from 
Job  with  a  most  impressive  intonation. 
He  passed  the  letter  back  to  me  and  said : 
"All  true !  I  have  seen  it  sinking  into  the  bones 
o'  the  young  and  I  have  seen  it  lying  down  with  the 
aged  in  the  dust  o'  their  graves.  It  is  a  big  book — 
the  one  we  are  now  opening.  God  help  us !  It  has 
more  pages  than  all  the  days  o'  your  life.  Just  think 
o'  your  body,  O  brave  and  tender  youth !  It  is  like 
a  sponge.  How  it  takes  things  in  an'  holds  'em  an' 
feeds  upon  'em !  A  part  o'  every  apple  ye  eat  sinks 
down  into  yer  blood  an'  bones.  Ye  can't  get  it  out. 


OTHER  GREAT  MEN  201 

It's  the  same  way  with  the  books  ye  read  an'  the 
thoughts  ye  enjoy.  They  go  down  into  yer  bones 
an'  ye  can't  get  'em  out.  That's  why  I  like  to  think 
o'  Michael  Henry.  His  food  is  good  thoughts  and 
his  wine  is  laughter.  I  had  a  long  visit  with  M.  H. 
last  night  when  ye  were  all  abed.  His  face  was  a 
chunk  o'  laughter.  Oh,  what  a  limb  he  is !  I  wish  I 
could  tell  ye  all  the  good  things  he  said." 

"There  comes  Colonel  Hand,"  said  Mrs.  Hacket 
as  she  looked  out  of  the  window.  "The  poor  lonely 
Whig!  He  has  nothing  to  do  these  days  but  sit 
around  the  tavern." 

"Ye  might  as  well  pity  a  goose  for  going  bare 
footed,"  the  schoolmaster  remarked. 

In  the  midst  of  our  laughter  Colonel  Hand  rapped 
at  the  door  and  Mr.  Hacket  admitted  him. 

"I  tell  you  the  country  is  going  to  the  dogs,"  I 
heard  the  Colonel  saying  as  he  came  into  the  house. 

"You  inhuman  Hand!"  said  the  schoolmaster. 
"I  should  think  you  would  be  tired  of  trying  to 
crush  that  old  indestructible  worm." 

Colonel  Hand  was  a  surly  looking  man  beyond 
middle  age  with  large  eyes  that  showed  signs  of  dis 
sipation.  He  had  a  small  dark  tuft  beneath  his 
lower  lip  and  thin,  black,  untidy  hair. 

"What  do  ye  think  has  happened?"  he  asked  as  he 
looked  down  upon  us  with  a  majestic  movement  of 
his  hand. 


202       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

He  stood  with  a  stern  face,  like  an  orator,  and 
seemed  to  enjoy  our  suspense. 

"What  do  you  think  has  happened?"  he  repeated. 

"God  knows !  It  may  be  that  Bill  Harriman  has 
swapped  horses  again  or  that  somebody  has  been 
talked  to  death  by  old  Granny  Barnes — which  is  it?" 
asked  the  schoolmaster. 

"It  is  neither,  sir,"  Colonel  Hand  answered 
sternly.  "The  son  o'  that  old  Buck-tail,  Ben  Grim- 
shaw,  has  been  arrested  and  brought  to  jail  for 
murder." 

"For  murder?"  asked  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hacket  in 
one  breath. 

"For  bloody  murder,  sir,"  the  Colonel  went  on. 
"It  was  the  shooting  of  that  man  in  the  town  o* 
Ballybeen  a  few  weeks  ago.  Things  have  come  to 
a  pretty  pass  in  this  country,  I  should  say.  Talk 
about  law  and  order,  we  don't  know  what  it  means 
here  and  why  should  we?  The  party  in  power  is 
avowedly  opposed  to  it — yes,  sir.  It  has  fattened 
upon  bribery  and  corruption.  Do  you  think  that  the 
son  o9  Ben  Grimshaw  will  receive  his  punishment 
even  if  he  is  proved  guilty?  Not  at  all.  He  will  be 
protected — you  mark  my  words." 

He  bowed  and  left  us.  When  the  door  had  closed 
behind  him  Mr.  Hacket  said  : 

"Another  victim  horned  by  the  Snapdragon!  If 
a  man  were  to  be  slain  by  a  bear  back  in  the  woods 


OTHER  GREAT  MEN  203 

Colonel  Hand  would  look  for  guilt  in  the  Demo 
cratic  party.  He  will  have  a  busy  day  and  people 
will  receive  him  as  the  ghost  of  Creusa  received  the 
embraces  of  ^Eneas — unheeding.  Michael  Henry, 
whatever  the  truth  may  be  regarding  the  poor  boy 
in  jail,  we  are  in  no  way  responsible.  Away  with 
sadness!  What  is  that?" 

Mr.  Hacket  inclined  his  ear  and  then  added: 
"Michael  Henry  says  that  he  may  be  innocent  and 
that  we  had  better  go  and  see  if  we  can  help  him. 
Now  I  hadn't  thought  o'  that.  Had  you,  Mary?" 

"No,"  the  girl  answered. 

"We  mustn't  be  letting  Mike  get  ahead  of  us 
always,"  said  her  father. 

The  news  brought  by  the  Colonel  had  shocked  me 
and  my  thoughts  had  been  very  busy  since  his  an 
nouncement.  I  had  thought  of  the  book  which  I 
had  seen  Amos  reading  in  the  haymow.  Had  its 
contents  sunk  into  his  bones? — for  I  couldn't  help 
thinking  of  all  that  Mr.  Hacket  had  just  said  about 
books  and  thoughts.  My  brain  had  gone  back  over 
the  events  of  that  tragic  moment — the  fall,  the  swift 
dream,  the  look  of  the  robber  in  the  dim  light,  the 
hurling  of  the  stone.  The  man  who  fled  was  about 
the  size  of  Amos,  but  I  had  never  thought  of  the 
latter  as  the  guilty  man. 

"You  saw  the  crime,  I  believe,"  said  Mr.  Hacket 
as  he  turned  to  me. 


204       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

I  told  them  all  that  I  knew  of  it. 

"Upon  my  word,  I  like  you,  my  brave  lad,"  said 
the  schoolmaster.  "I  heard  of  all  this  and  decided 
that  you  would  be  a  help  to  Michael  Henry  and  a 
creditable  student.  Come,  let  us  go  and  pay  our 
compliments  to  the  Senator.  He  rises  betimes.  If 
he  stayed  at  the  tavern  he  will  be  out  and  up  at  his 
house  by  now." 

The  schoolmaster  and  I  went  over  to  Mr. 
Wright's  house — a  white,  frame  building  which  had 
often  been  pointed  out  to  me. 

Mrs.  Wright,  a  fine-looking  lady  who  met  us  at 
the  door,  said  that  the  Senator  had  gone  over  to  the 
mill  with  his  wheelbarrow. 

Mr.  Hacket  asked  for  the  time  and  she  answered : 

"It  wants  one  minute  of  seven." 

I  quote  her  words  to  show  how  early  the  day 
began  with  us  back  in  those  times. 

"We've  plenty  of  time  and  we'll  wait  for  him," 
said  the  schoolmaster. 

"I  see  him !"  said  little  John  as  he  and  Ruth  ran 
to  the  gate  and  down  the  rough  plank  walk  to  meet 
him. 

We  saw  him  coming  a  little  way  down  the  street 
in  his  shirt-sleeves  with  his  barrow  in  front  of  him. 
He  stopped  and  lifted  little  John  in  his  arms,  and 
after  a  moment  put  him  down  and  embraced  Ruth. 

"Well,  I  see  ye  still  love  the  tender  embrace  o'  the 


OTHER  GREAT  MEN  205 

wheelbarrow/'  said  Mr.  Racket  as  we  approached 
the  Senator. 

"My  embrace  is  the  tenderer  of  the  two,"  the  lat 
ter  laughed  with  a  look  at  his  hands. 

He  recognized  me  and  seized  my  two  hands  and 
shook  them  as  he  said : 

"Upon  my  word,  here  is  my  friend  Bart.  I  was 
not  looking  for  you  here." 

He  put  his  hand  on  my  head,  now  higher  than  his 
shoulder,  and  said:  "I  was  not  looking  for  you 
here." 

He  moved  his  hand  down  some  inches  and  added : 
"I  was  looking  for  you  down  there.  You  can't  tell 
where  you'll  find  these  youngsters  if  you  leave  them 
a  while." 

"We  are  all  forever  moving,"  said  the  schoolmas 
ter.  "No  man  is  ever  two  days  in  the  same  altitude 
unless  he's  a  Whig." 

"Or  a  born  fool,"  the  Senator  laughed  with  a  sub 
tlety  which  I  did  not  then  appreciate. 

He  asked  about  my  aunt  and  uncle  and  expressed 
joy  at  learning  that  I  was  now  under  Mr.  Hacket. 

"I  shall  be  here  for  a  number  of  weeks,"  he  said, 
"and  I  shall  want  to  see  you  often.  Maybe  we'll  go 
hunting  some  Saturday." 

We  bade  him  good  morning  and  he  went  on  with 
his  wheelbarrow,  which  was  loaded,  I  remember, 
with  stout  sacks  of  meal  and  flour. 


206      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

We  went  to  the  school  at  half  past  eight.  What 
a  thrilling  place  it  was  with  its  seventy-eight  chil 
dren  and  its  three  rooms.  How  noisy  they  were  as 
they  waited  in  the  school  yard  for  the  bell  to  ring ! 
I  stood  by  the  door-side  looking  very  foolish,  I  dare 
say,  for  I  knew  not  what  to  do  with  myself.  My 
legs  encased  in  the  tow  breeches  felt  as  if  they  were 
on  fire.  My  timidity  was  increased  by  the  fact  that 
many  were  observing  me  and  that  my  appearance 
seemed  to  inspire  sundry,  sly  remarks.  I  saw  that 
most  of  the  village  boys  wore  bough  ten  clothes  and 
fine  boots.  I  looked  down  at  my  own  leather  and 
was  a  tower  of  shame  on  a  foundation  of  greased 
cowhide.  Sally  Dunkelberg  came  in  with  some 
other  girls  and  pretended  not  to  see  me.  That  was 
the  hardest  blow  I  suffered. 

Among  the  handsome,  well-dressed  boys  of  the 
village  was  Henry  Wills — the  boy  who  had  stolen 
my  watermelon.  I  had  never  forgiven  him  for  that 
or  for  the  killing  of  my  little  hen.  The  bell  rang 
and  we  marched  into  the  big  room,  while  a  fat  girl 
with  crinkly  hair  played  on  a  melodeon.  Henry  and 
another  boy  tried  to  shove  me  out  of  line  and  a  big 
paper  wad  struck  the  side  of  my  head  as  we  were 
marching  in  and  after  we  were  seated  a  cross-eyed, 
freckled  girl  in  a  red  dress  made  a  face  at  me. 

It  was,  on  the  whole,  the  unhappiest  day  of  my 
life.  It  reminded  me  of  Captain  Cook's  account  of 


OTHER  GREAT  MEN  207 

his  first  day  with  a  barbaric  tribe  on  one  of  the  South 
Sea  islands.  During  recess  I  slapped  a  boy's  face 
for  calling  me  a  rabbit  and  the  two  others  who  came 
to  help  him  went  away  full  of  fear  and  astonish 
ment,  for  I  had  the  strength  of  a  young  moose  in 
me  those  days.  After  that  they  began  to  make 
friends  with  me. 

In  the  noon  hour  a  man  came  to  me  in  the  school 
yard  with  a  subpoena  for  the  examination  of  Amos 
Grimshaw  and  explained  its  meaning.  He  also  said 
that  Bishop  Perkins,  the  district  attorney,  would  call 
to  see  me  that  evening. 

While  I  was  talking  with  this  man  Sally  passed 
me  walking  with  another  girl  and  said: 

"Hello,  Bart!" 

I  observed  that  Henry  Wills  joined  them  and 
walked  down  the  street  at  the  side  of  Sally.  I  got 
my  first  pang  of  jealousy  then. 

When  school  was  out  that  afternoon  Mr.  Hacket 
said  I  could  have  an  hour  to  see  the  sights  of  the  vil 
lage,  so  I  set  out,  feeling  much  depressed.  My  self- 
confidence  had  vanished.  I  was  homesick  and  felt 
terribly  alone.  I  passed  the  jail  and  stopped  and 
looked  at  its  grated  windows  and  thought  of  Amos 
and  wondered  if  he  were  really  a  murderer. 

I  walked  toward  the  house  of  Mr.  Wright  and 
saw  him  digging  potatoes  in  the  garden  and  went 
in.  I  knew  that  he  was  my  friend. 


208      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

"Well,  Bart,  how  do  you  like  school?"  he  asked. 

"Not  very  well,"  I  answered. 

"Of  course  not!  It's  new  to  you  now,  and  you 
miss  your  aunt  and  uncle.  Stick  to  it.  You'll  make 
friends  and  get  interested  before  long." 

"I  want  to  go  home,"  I  declared. 

"Now  let's  look  at  the  compass,"  he  suggested. 
"You're  lost  for  a  minute  and,  like  all  lost  people, 
you're  heading  the  wrong  way.  Don't  be  misled  by 
selfishness.  Forget  what  you  want  to  do  and  think 
of  what  we  want  you  to  do.  We  want  you  to  make 
a  man  of  yourself.  You  must  do  it  for  the  sake  of 
those  dear  people  who  have  done  so  much  for  you. 
The  needle  points  toward  the  schoolhouse  yonder." 

He  went  on  with  his  work,  and,  as  I  walked  away, 
I  understood  that  the  needle  he  referred  to  was  my 
conscience. 

As  I  neared  the  schoolmaster's  the  same  drunken 
man  that  I  had  seen  before  went  zigzagging  up  the 
road. 

Mr.  Racket  stood  in  his  dooryard. 

"Who  is  that?"  I  asked. 

"Nick  Tubbs — the  village  drunkard  and  sign  o' 
the  times,"  he  answered.  "Does  chores  at  the  tavern 
all  day  and  goes  home  at  night  filled  with  his  earn 
ings  an'  a  great  sense  o'  proprietorship.  He  is  the 
top  flower  on  the  bush." 


OTHER  GREAT  MEN  209 

I  went  about  my  chores.  There  was  to  be  no 
more  wavering  in  my  conduct.  At  the  supper  table 
Mr.  Racket  kept  us  laughing  with  songs  and  jests 
and  stories.  The  boy  John,  having  been  reproved 
for  rapid  eating,  hurled  his  spoon  upon  the  floor. 

"Those  in  favor  of  his  punishment  will  please 
say  aye  ?"  said  the  schoolmaster. 

I  remember  that  we  had  a  divided  house  on  that 
important  question. 

The  schoolmaster  said:  "Michael  Henry  wishes 
him  to  be  forgiven  on  promise  of  better  conduct, 
but  for  the  next  offense  he  shall  ride  the  badger." 

This  meant  lying  for  a  painful  moment  across 
his  father's  knee. 

The  promise  was  given  and  our  merry-making 
resumed.  The  district  attorney,  whom  I  had  met  be 
fore,  came  to  see  me  after  supper  and  asked  more 
questions  and  advised  me  to  talk  with  no  one  about 
the  shooting  without  his  consent.  Soon  he  went 
away,  and  after  I  had  learned  my  lessons  Mr. 
Hacket  said : 

"Let  us  walk  up  to  the  jail  and  spend  a  few  min 
utes  with  Amos." 

We  hurried  to  the  jail.  The  sheriff,  a  stout-built, 
stern- faced  man,  admitted  us. 

"Can  we  see  the  Grimshaw  boy  ?"  Mr.  Hacket  in 
quired. 

"I  guess  so,"  he  answered  as  he  lazily  rose  from 


210      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

his  chair  and  took  down  a  bunch  of  large  keys  which 
had  been  hanging  on  the  wall.  "His  father  has  just 
left." 

He  spoke  in  a  low,  solemn  tone  which  impressed 
me  deeply  as  he  put  a  lighted  candle  in  the  hand  of 
the  schoolmaster.  He  led  us  through  a  door  into  a 
narrow  corridor.  He  thrust  a  big  key  into  the  lock 
of  a  heavy  iron  grating  and  threw  it  open  and  bade 
us  step  in.  We  entered  an  ill-smelling,  stone-floored 
room  with  a  number  of  cells  against  its  rear  wall. 
He  locked  the  door  behind  us.  I  saw  a  face  and 
figure  in  the  dim  candle-light,  behind  the  grated 
door  of  one  of  these  cells.  How  lonely  and  dejected 
and  helpless  was  the  expression  of  that  figure !  The 
sheriff  went  to  the  door  and  unlocked  it. 

"Hello,  Grimshaw,"  he  said  sternly.  "Step  out 
here." 

It  all  went  to  my  heart — the  manners  of  the 
sheriff  so  like  the  cold  iron  of  his  keys  and  doors — 
the  dim  candle-light,  the  pale,  frightened  youth  who 
walked  toward  us.  We  shook  his  hand  and  he  said 
that  he  was  glad  to  see  us.  I  saw  the  scar  under  his 
left  ear  and  reaching  out  upon  his  cheek  which  my 
stone  had  made  and  knew  that  he  bore  the  mark  of 
Cain. 

He  asked  if  he  could  see  me  alone  and  the  sheriff 
shook  his  head  and  said  sternly : 

"Against  the  rules." 


OTHER  GREAT  MEN  211 

"Amos,  I've  a  boy  o'  my  own  an*  I  feel  for  ye," 
said  the  schoolmaster.  "I'm  going  to  come  here, 
now  and  then,  to  cheer  ye  up  and  bring  ye  some 
books  to  read.  If  there's  any  word  of  advice  I  can 
give  ye — let  me  know.  Have  ye  a  lawyer?" 

"There's  one  coming  to-morrow." 

"Don't  say  a  word  about  the  case,  boy,  to  any  one 
but  your  lawyer — mind  that." 

We  left  him  and  went  to  our  home  and  beds.  I 
to  spend  half  the  night  thinking  of  my  discovery, 
since  which,  for  some  reason,  I  had  no  doubt  of  the 
guilt  of  Amos,  but  I  spoke  not  of  it  to  any  one  and 
the  secret  worried  me. 

Next  morning  on  my  way  to  school  I  passed  a 
scene  more  strange  and  memorable  than  any  in  my 
long  experience.  I  saw  the  shabby  figure  of  old 
Benjamin  Grimshaw  walking  in  the  side  path.  His 
hands  were  in  his  pockets,  his  eyes  bent  upon  the 
ground,  his  lips  moving  as  if  he  were  in  deep 
thought.  Roving  Kate,  the  ragged,  silent  woman 
who,  for  the  fortune  of  Amos,  had  drawn  a  gibbet, 
the  shadow  of  which  was  now  upon  him,  walked 
slowly  behind  the  money-lender  pointing  at  him  with 
her  bony  forefinger.  Her  stern  eyes  watched  him 
as  the  cat  watches  when  its  prey  is  near  it.  She  did 
not  notice  me.  Silently,  her  feet  wrapped  in  rags, 
she  walked  behind  the  man,  always  pointing  at  him. 
When  he  stopped  she  stopped.  When  he  resumed 


212      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

his  slow  progress  she  followed.  It  thrilled  me,  partly 
because  I  had  begun  to  believe  in  the  weird,  mys 
terious  power  of  the  Silent  Woman.  I  had  twenty 
minutes  to  spare  and  so  I  turned  into  the  main  street 
behind  and  close  by  them.  I  saw  him  stop  and  buy 
some  crackers  and  an  apple  and  a  piece  of  cheese. 
Meanwhile  she  stood  pointing  at  him.  He  saw,  but 
gave  no  heed  to  her.  He  walked  along  the  street  in 
front  of  the  stores,  she  following  as  before.  Ho\v 
patiently  she  followed ! 

"Why  does  she  follow  him  that  way?"  I  asked  the 
storekeeper  when  they  were  gone. 

"Oh,  I  dunno,  boy!'*  he  answered.  "She's  crazy 
an*  I  guess  she  dunno  what  she's  doin'." 

The  explanation  did  not  satisfy  me.  I  knew,  or 
thought  I  knew,  better  than  he  the  meaning  of  that 
look  in  her  eyes.  I  had  seen  it  before. 

I  started  for  the  big  schoolhouse  and  a  number  of 
boys  joined  me  with  pleasant  words. 

"I  saw  you  lookin'  at  ol'  Kate,"  one  of  them  said 
to  me.  "Don't  ye  ever  make  fun  o'  her.  She's  got 
the  evil  eye  an'  if  she  puts  it  on  ye,  why  ye'll  git 
drownded  er  fall  off  a  high  place  er  somethin'." 

The  boys  were  of  one  accord  about  that. 

Sally  ran  past  us  with  that  low-lived  Wills  boy, 
who  carried  ker  books  for  her.  His  father  had  gone 
into  the  grocery  business  and  Henry  wore  boughten 
clothes.  I  couldn't  tell  Sally  how  mean  he  was.  I 


OTHER  GREAT  MEN  213 

was  angry  and  decided  not  to  speak  to  her  until  she 
spoke  to  me.  I  got  along  better  in  school,  although 
there  was  some  tittering  when  I  recited,  probably 
because  I  had  a  broader  dialect  and  bigger  boots 
than  the  boys  of  the  village. 


CHAPTER  X 

I  MEET  PRESIDENT  VAN  BUREN  AND  AM  CROSS- 
EXAMINED  BY  MR.  GRIMSHAW 

THE  days  went  easier  after  that.    The  boys 
took  me  into  their  play  and  some  of  them 
were  most  friendly.     I  had  a  swift  foot 
and  a  good  eye  as  well  as  a  strong  arm,  and  could 
hold  my  own  at  three-old-cat — a  kind  of  baseball 
which  we  played  in  the  school  yard.      Saturday 
came.     As  we  were  sitting  down  at  the  table  that 
morning  the  younger  children  clung  to  the  knees  of 
Mr.  Hacket  and  begged  him  to  take  them  up  the 
river  in  a  boat. 

"Good  Lord!  What  wilt  thou  give  me  when  I 
grow  childless  ?"  he  exclaimed  with  his  arms  around 
them.  "That  was  the  question  of  Abraham,  and  it 
often  comes  to  me.  Of  course  we  shall  go.  But 
hark !  Let  us  hear  what  the  green  chair  has  to  say." 
There  was  a  moment  of  silence  and  then  he  went 
on  with  a  merry  laugh.  "Right  ye  are,  Michael 
Henry!  You  are  always  right,  my  boy — God  bless 
your  soul!  We  shall  take  Bart  with  us  an'  dough 
nuts  an'  cheese  an'  cookies  an'  dried  meat  for  all." 

214 


PRESIDENT  VAN  BUREN  215 

From  that  moment  I  date  the  beginning  of  my 
love  for  the  occupant  of  the  green  chair  in  the  home 
of  Michael  Hacket.  Those  good  people  were  Catho 
lics  and  I  a  Protestant  and  yet  this  Michael  Henry 
always  insisted  upon  the  most  delicate  consideration 
for  my  faith  and  feelings. 

"I  promised  to  spend  the  morning  in  the  field  with 
Mr.  Wright,  if  I  may  have  your  consent,  sir,"  I  said. 

"Then  we  shall  console  ourselves,  knowing  that 
you  are  in  better  company,"  said  Mr.  Hacket. 

Mr.  Dunkelberg  called  at  the  house  in  Ashery 
Lane  to  see  me  after  breakfast. 

"Bart,  if  you  will  come  with  me  I  should  like  to 
order  some  store  clothes  and  boots  for  you,"  he  said 
in  his  squeaky  voice. 

For  a  moment  I  knew  not  how  to  answer  him. 
Nettled  as  I  had  been  by  Sally's  treatment  of  me,  the 
offer  was  like  rubbing  ashes  on  the  soreness  of  my 
spirit. 

I  blushed  and  surveyed  my  garments  and  said : 

"I  guess  I  look  pretty  badly,  don't  I?" 

"You  look  all  right,  but  I  thought,  maybe,  you 
would  feel  better  in  softer  raiment,  especially  if  you 
care  to  go  around  much  with  the  young  people.  I 
am  an  old  friend  of  the  family  and  I  guess  it  would 
be  proper  for  me  to  buy  the  clothes  for  you.  When 
you  are  older  you  can  buy  a  suit  for  me,  sometime, 
if  you  care  to." 


216       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

It  should  be  understood  that  well-to-do  people  in 
the  towns  were  more  particular  about  their  dress 
those  days  than  now. 

"I'll  ask  my  aunt  and  uncle  about  it,"  I  proposed. 

"That's  all  right,"  he  answered.  "I'm  going  to 
drive  up  to  your  house  this  afternoon  and  your 
uncle  wishes  you  to  go  with  me.  We  are  all  to  have 
a  talk  with  Mr.  Grimshaw." 

He  left  me  and  I  went  over  to  Mr.  Wright's. 

They  told  me  that  he  was  cutting  corn  in  the  back 
lot,  where  I  found  him. 

"How  do  I  look  in  these  clothes?"  I  bravely 
asked. 

"Like  the  son  of  a  farmer  up  in  the  hills  and  that's 
just  as  you  ought  to  look,"  he  answered. 

In  a  moment  he  added  as  he  reaped  a  hill  of  corn 
with  his  sickle. 

"I  suppose  they  are  making  fun  of  you,  partner." 

"Some,"  I  answered,  blushing. 

"Don't  mind  that,"  he  advised,  and  then  quoted 
the  stanza : 

* 

"Were  I  as  tall  to  reach  the  pole 

Or  grasp  the  ocean  in  a  span, 
I'd  still  me  measured  by  my  soul ; 

The  mind's  the  standard  of  the  man." 

"Mr.  Dunkelberg  came  this  morning  and  wanted 
to  buy  me  some  new  clothes  and  boots,"  I  said. 


"Good  Lord!    What  wilt  thou  give  me  when  I  grow  childless?' 


PRESIDENT  VAN  BUREN  217 

The  Senator  stopped  work  and  stood  looking  at 
me  with  his  hands  upon  his  hips. 

"I  wouldn't  let  him  do  it  if  I  were  you,"  he  said 
thoughtfully. 

Just  then  I  saw  a  young  man  come  running  to 
ward  us  in  the  distant  field. 

Mr.  Wright  took  out  his  compass. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  "you  see  the  needle  points 
due  north." 

He  took  a  lodestone  out  of  his  pocket  and  holding 
it  near  the  compass  moved  it  back  and  forth.  The 
needle  followed  it. 

The  young  man  came  up  to  us  breathing  deeply. 
Perspiration  wras  rolling  off  his  face.  He  was  much 
excited  and  spoke  with  some  difficulty. 

"Senator  Wright,"  he  gasped,  "Mrs.  Wright  sent 
me  down  to  tell  you  that  President  Van  Buren  is  at 
the  house." 

I  remember  vividly  the  look  of  mild  amusement 
in  the  Senator's  face  and  the  serene  calmness  with 
which  he  looked  at  the  young  man  and  said  to  him : 

"Tell  Mrs.  Wright  to  make  him  comfortable  in 
our  easiest  chair  and  to  say  to  the  President  that  I 
shall  be  up  directly." 

To  my  utter  surprise  he  resumed  his  talk  with  me 
as  the  young  man  went  away. 

"You  see  all  ways  are  north  when  you  put  this 
lodestone  near  the  needle,"  he  went  on.  "If  it  is  to 


218       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

tell  you  the  truth  you  must  keep  the  lodestone  away 
from  the  needle.  It's  that  way,  too,  with  the  com 
pass  of  your  soul,  partner.  There  the  lodestone  is 
selfishness,  and  with  its  help  you  can  make  any  di 
rection  look  right  to  you  and  soon — you're  lost." 

He  put  his  hand  on  my  arm  and  said  in  a  low 
tone  which  made  me  to  understand  that  it  was  for 
my  ear  only. 

"What  I  fear  is  that  they  may  try  to  tamper  with 
your  compass.  Look  out  for  lodestones." 

He  was  near  the  end  of  a  row  and  went  on  with 
his  reaping  as  he  said : 

"I  could  take  my  body  off  this  row  any  minute, 
but  the  only  way  to  get  my  mind  off  it  is  to  go  to 
its  end." 

He  bound  the  last  bundle  and  then  we  walked 
together  toward  the  house,  the  Senator  carrying  his 
sickle. 

"I  shall  introduce  you  to  the  President,"  he  said 
as  we  neared  our  destination.  "Then  perhaps  you 
had  better  leave  us." 

At  home  we  had  read  much  about  the  new  Presi 
dent  and  regarded  him  with  deep  veneration.  In 
general  I  knew  the  grounds  of  it — his  fight  against 
the  banks  for  using  public  funds  for  selfish  purposes 
and  "swapping  mushrats  for  mink"  with  the  govern 
ment,  as  uncle  put  it,  by  seeking  to  return  the  same 
in  cheapened  paper  money;  his  long  battle  for  the 


PRESIDENT  VAN  BUREN  219 

extension  of  the  right  of  suffrage  in  our  state;  his 
fiery  eloquence  in  debate.  Often  I  had  heard  Uncle 
Peabody  say  that  Van  Buren  had  made  it  possible 
for  a  poor  man  to  vote  in  York  State  and  hold  up 
his  head  like  a  man.  So  I  was  deeply  moved  by  the 
prospect  of  seeing  him. 

I  could  not  remember  that  I  had  ever  been  "intro 
duced"  to  anybody.  I  knew  that  people  put  their 
wits  on  exhibition  and  often  flung  down  a  "snag" 
by  way  of  demonstrating  their  fitness  for  the  honor, 
when  they  were  introduced  in  books.  I  remember 
asking  rather  timidly : 

"What  shall  I  say  when — when  you — introduce 
me?" 

"Oh,  say  anything  that  you  want  to  say,"  he  an 
swered  with  a  look  of  amusement. 

"I'm  kind  o'  scared,"  I  said. 

"You  needn't  be — he  was  once  a  poor  boy  just 
like  you." 

"Just  like  me!"  I  repeated,  thoughtfully,  for  while 
I  had  heard  a  good  deal  of  that  kind  of  thing  in  our 
home,  it  had  not,  somehow,  got  under  my  jacket,  as 
they  used  to  say. 

"Just  like  you — cowhide  and  all — the  son  of  a 
small  freeholder  in  Kinderhook  on  the  Hudson,"  he 
went  on.  "But  he  was  well  fed  in  brain  and  body 
and  kept  his  heart  clean.  So,  of  course,  he  grew  and 
is  still  growing.  That's  a  curious  thing  about  men 


220      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

and  women,  Bart.  If  they  are  in  good  ground  and 
properly  cared  for  they  never  stop  growing — never ! 
• — and  that's  a  pretty  full  word — isn't  it?" 

I  felt  its  fulness,  but  the  Senator  had  a  way  of 
stopping  just  this  side  of  the  grave  in  all  his  talks 
with  me,  and  so  there  was  no  sign  of  preaching  in 
any  of  it. 

"As  time  goes  on  you'll  meet  a  good  many  great 
men,  I  presume,"  he  continued.  "They're  all  just 
human  beings  like  you  and  me.  Most  of  them  enjoy 
beefsteak  and  apple  pie  and  good  boys." 

We  had  come  in  sight  of  the  house.  I  lagged 
behind  a  little  when  I  saw  the  great  man  sitting  on 
the  small  piazza  with  Mrs.  Wright.  I  shall  never 
forget  the  grand  clothes  he  wore — black,  saving  the 
gray  waistcoat,  with  shiny,  brass  buttons — especially 
the  great,  white  standing  collar  and  cravat.  I  see 
vividly,  too,  as  I  write,  the  full  figure,  the  ruddy, 
kindly  face,  the  large  nose,  the  gray  eyes,  the  thick 
halo  of  silvered  hair  extending  from  his  collar  to  the 
bald  top  of  his  head.  He  rose  and  said  in  a  deep 
voice : 

"He  sows  ill  luck  who  hinders  the  reaper." 

Mr.  Wright  hung  his  sickle  on  a  small  tree  in  the 
dooryard  and  answered. 

"The  plowman  has  overtaken  the  reaper,  Mr. 
President.  I  bid  you  welcome  to  my  humble  home." 

"It  is  a  pleasure  to  be  here  and  a  regret  to  call 


'Mr.  President,  this  is  my  young  friend  Barton  Baynes" 


PRESIDENT  VAN  BUREN  221 

you  back  to  Washington,"  said  the  President  as  they 
shook  hands. 

"I  suppose  that  means  an  extra  session/'  the 
Senator  answered. 

"First  let  me  reassure  you.  I  shall  get  away  as 
soon  as  possible,  for  I  know  that  a  President  is  a 
heavy  burden  for  one  to  have  on  his  hands." 

"Don't  worry.  I  can  get  along  with  almost  any 
kind  of  a  human  being,  especially  if  he  likes  pud 
ding  and  milk  as  well  as  you  do,"  said  the  Sen 
ator,  who  then  introduced  me  in  these  words: 

"Mr.  President,  this  is  my  young  friend  Barton 
Baynes  of  the  neighborhood  of  Lickitysplit  in  the 
town  of  Ballybeen — a  coming  man  of  this  county." 

"Come  on,"  was  the  playful  remark  of  the  Presi 
dent  as  he  took  my  hand.  "I  shall  be  looking  for 
you." 

I  had  carefully  chosen  my  words  and  I  remem 
ber  saying,  with  some  dignity,  like  one  in  a  story 
book,  although  with  a  trembling  voice: 

"It  is  an  honor  to  meet  you,  sir,  and  thank  you 
for  the  right  to  vote — when  I  am  old  enough." 

Vividly,  too,  I  remember  his  gentle  smile  as  he 
looked  down  at  me  and  said  in  a  most  kindly  tone : 

"I  think  it  a  great  honor  to  hear  you  say  that." 

He  put  his  hands  upon  my  shoulders  and  turning 
to  the  Senator  said : 

"Wright,  I  often  wish  that  I  had  your  modesty." 


PRESIDENT  VAN  BUREN  221 

you  back  to  Washington/'  said  the  President  as  they 
shook  hands. 

"I  suppose  that  means  an  extra  session/1  the 
Senator  answered. 

"First  let  me  reassure  you.  I  shall  get  away  as 
soon  as  possible,  for  I  know  that  a  President  is  a 
heavy  burden  for  one  to  have  on  his  hands." 

"Don't  worry.  I  can  get  along  with  almost  any 
kind  of  a  human  being,  especially  if  he  likes  pud 
ding  and  milk  as  well  as  you  do,"  said  the  Sen 
ator,  who  then  introduced  me  in  these  words: 

"Mr.  President,  this  is  my  young  friend  Barton 
Baynes  of  the  neighborhood  of  Lickity split  in  the 
town  of  Ballybeen — a  coming  man  of  this  county." 

"Come  on,"  was  the  playful  remark  of  the  Presi 
dent  as  he  took  my  hand.  "I  shall  be  looking  for 
you." 

I  had  carefully  chosen  my  words  and  I  remem 
ber  saying,  with  some  dignity,  like  one  in  a  story 
book,  although  with  a  trembling  voice: 

"It  is  an  honor  to  meet  you,  sir,  and  thank  you 
for  the  right  to  vote — when  I  am  old  enough." 

Vividly,  too,  I  remember  his  gentle  smile  as  he 
looked  down  at  me  and  said  in  a  most  kindly  tone : 

"I  think  it  a  great  honor  to  hear  you  say  that." 

He  put  his  hands  upon  my  shoulders  and  turning 
to  the  Senator  said : 

"Wright,  I  often  wish  that  I  had  your  modesty." 


222       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

"I  need  it  much  more  than  you  do/'  the  Senator 
laughed. 

Straightway  I  left  them  with  an  awkward  bow 
arid  blushing  to  the  roots  of  my  hair.  A  number  of 
boys  and  girls  stood  under  the  shade  trees  opposite 
looking  across  at  the  President.  In  my  embarrass 
ment  I  did  not  identify  any  one  in  the  group.  Num 
bers  of  men  and  women  were  passing  the  house  and, 
as  they  did  so,  taking  "a  good  look,"  in  their  way  of 
speaking  at  the  two  great  men.  Not  before  had  I 
seen  so  many  people  walking  about — many  in  their 
best  clothes. 

As  I  neared  the  home  of  Mr.  Hacket  I  heard 
hurrying  footsteps  behind  me  and  the  voice  of 
Sally  calling  my  name.  I  stopped  and  faced  about. 

How  charming  she  looked  as  she  walked  toward 
me !  I  had  never  seen  her  quite  so  fixed  up. 

"Bart,"  she  said.  "I  suppose  you're  not  going 
to  speak  to  me." 

"If  you'll  speak  to  me,"  I  answered. 

"I  love  to  speak  to  you,"  she  said.  "I've  been 
looking  all  around  for  you.  Mother  wants  you  to 
come  over  to  dinner  with  us  at  just  twelve  o'clock. 
You're  going  away  with  father  as  soon  as  we  get 
through." 

I  wanted  to  go  but  got  the  notion  all  at  once  that 
the  Dunkelbergs  were  in  need  of  information  about 
me  and  that  the  time  had  come  to  impart  it.  So  then 


PRESIDENT  VAN  BUEEN  223 

and  there,  that  ancient  Olympus  of  our  family  re 
ceived  notice  as  it  were. 

"I  can't,"  I  said.  "I've  got  to  study  my  lessons 
before  I  go  away  with  your  father." 

It  was  a  blow  to  her.  I  saw  the  shadow  that  fell 
upon  her  face.  She  was  vexed  and  turned  and  ran 
away  from  me  without  another  word  and  I  felt  a 
pang  of  regret  as  I  went  to  the  lonely  and  deserted 
home  of  the  schoolmaster. 

I  had  hoped  that  the  Senator  would  ask  me  to 
dinner,  but  the  coming  of  the  President  had  upset 
the  chance  of  it.  It  was  eleven  o'clock.  Mrs. 
Hacket  had  put  a  cold  bite  on  the  table  for  me.  I 
ate  it — not  to  keep  it  waiting — and  sat  down  with 
my  eyes  on  my  book  and  my  mind  at  the  Dunkel- 
bergs' — where  I  heard  in  a  way  what  Sally  was 
saying  and  what  "Mr.  and  Mrs.  Horace  Dunkel- 
berg"  were  saying. 

At  twelve-thirty  Mr.  Dunkelberg  came  for  me, 
with  a  high-stepping  horse  in  a  new  harness  and 
a  shiny  still-running  buggy.  He  wore  gloves  and 
a  beaver  hat  and  sat  very  erect  and  had  little  to  say. 

"I  hear  you  met  the  President,"  he  remarked. 

"Yes,  sir.  I  was  introduced  to  him  this  morn 
ing,"  I  answered  a  bit  too  proudly,  and  wondering 
how  he  had  heard  of  my  good  fortune,  but  deeply 
gratified  at  his  knowledge  of  it. 

"What  did  he  have  to  say?" 


224      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

I  described  the  interview  and  the  looks  of  the 
great  man.  Not  much  more  was  said  as  we  sped 
away  toward  the  deep  woods  and  the  high  hills. 

I  was  eager  to  get  home  but  wondered  why  he 
should  be  going  with  me  to  talk  with  Mr.  Grim- 
shaw  and  my  uncle.  Of  course  I  suspected  that  it 
had  to  do  with  Amos  but  how  I  knew  not.  He 
hummed  in  the  rough  going  and  thoughtfully  flicked 
the  bushes  with  his  whip.  I  never  knew  a  more  per 
sistent  hummer. 

What  a  thrill  came  to  me  when  I  saw  the  house 
and  the  popple  tree  and  the  lilac  bushes — they  looked 
so  friendly!  Old  Shep  came  barking  up  the  road 
to  meet  us  and  ran  by  the  buggy  side  with  joyful 
leaps  and  cries.  With  what  affection  he  crowded 
upon  me  and  licked  my  face  and  hands  when  my 
feet  were  on  the  ground  at  last!  Aunt  Deel  and 
Uncle  Peabody  were  coming  in  from  the  pasture  lot 
with  sacks  of  butternuts  on  a  wheelbarrow.  My 
uncle  clapped  his  hands  and  waved  his  handker 
chief  and  shouted  "Hooray!" 

Aunt  Deel  shook  hands  with  Mr.  Dunkelberg  and 
then  came  to  me  and  said: 

"Wai,  Bart  Baynes !  I  never  was  so  glad  to  see 
anybody  in  all  the  days'  o'  my  life — ayes !  We  been 
lookin'  up  the  road  for  an  hour — ayes!  You  come 
right  into  the  house  this  minute — both  o'  you." 

The  table  was  spread  with  the  things  I  enjoyed 


PRESIDENT  VAN  BUBEN  225 

most — big  brown  biscuits  and  a  great  comb  of 
honey  surrounded  with  its  nectar  and  a  pitcher  of 
milk  and  a  plate  of  cheese  and  some  jerked  meat 
and  an  apple  pie. 

"Set  right  down  an*  eat — I  just  want  to  see  ye 
eat — ayes  I  do !" 

Aunt  Deel  was  treating  me  like  company  and  with 
just  a  pleasant  touch  of  the  old  company  finish  in 
her  voice  and  manner.  It  was  for  my  benefit — there 
could  be  no  doubt  of  that — for  she  addressed  her 
self  to  me,  chiefly,  and  not  to  Mr.  Dunkelberg.  My 
absence  of  a  few  days  had  seemed  so  long  to  them! 
It  had  raised  me  to  the  rank  of  company  and  even 
put  me  above  the  exalted  Dunkelbergs  although  if 
Mrs.  Horace  Dunkelberg  had  been  there  in  her 
blue  silk  and  gold  chain  "big  enough  to  drag  a  stone 
boat,"  as  Aunt  Deel  used  to  say,  she  might  have 
saved  the  day  for  them.  Who  knows?  Aunt  Deel 
was  never  much  impressed  by  any  man  save  Silas 
Wright,  Jr. 

Mr.  Grimshaw  came  soon  after  we  had  finished 
our  luncheon.  He  hitched  his  horse  at  the  post  and 
came  in.  He  never  shook  hands  with  anybody.  In 
all  my  life  I  have  met  no  man  of  scanter  amenities. 
All  that  kind  of  thing  was,  in  his  view,  I  think,  a 
waste  of  time,  a  foolish  encouragement  to  men  who 
were  likely  to  be  seeking  favors. 

"Good  day,"  he  said,  once  and  for  all,  as  he  came 


226       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

in  at  the  open  door.  "Baynes,  I  want  to  have  a 
talk  with  you  and  the  boy." 

I  remember  how  each  intake  of  his  breath  hissed 
through  his  lips  as  he  sat  down.  How  worn  and 
faded  were  his  clothes  and  hat,  which  was  still  on 
his  head !  The  lines  on  his  rugged  brow  and  cheeks 
were  deeper  than  ever. 

"Tell  me  what  you  know  about  that  murder,"  he 
demanded. 

"Wai,  I  had  some  business  over  to  Plattsburg," 
my  uncle  began.  "While  I  was  there  I  thought  I'd 
go  and  see  Amos.  So  I  drove  out  to  Beekman's 
farm.  They  told  me  that  Amos  had  left  there  after 
workin'  four  days.  They  gave  him  fourteen  shil- 
lin's  an*  he  was  goin'  to  take  the  stage  in  the 
mornin'.  He  left  some  time  in  the  night  an'  took 
Beekman's  rifle  with  him,  so  they  said.  There  was 
a  piece  o'  wood  broke  out  o'  the  stock  o'  the  rifle. 
That  was  the  kind  o'  gun  that  was  used  in  the 
murder." 

It  surprised  me  that  my  uncle  knew  all  this.  He 
had  said  nothing  to  me  of  his  journey  or  its  re 
sult. 

"How  do  you  know  ?"  snapped  Mr.  Grimshaw. 

"This  boy  see  it  plain.  It  was  a  gun  with  a  piece 
o'  wood  broke  out  o'  the  stock." 

"Is  that  so?"  was  the  brusque  demand  of  the 
money-lender  as  he  turned  to  me. 


PRESIDENT  VAN  BUREN  227 

"Yes,  sir/'  I  answered. 

"The  boy  lies,"  he  snapped,  and  turning  to  my 
uncle  added:  "Yer  mad  'cause  I'm  tryin'  to  make 
ye  pay  yer  honest  debts — ain't  ye  now  ?" 

We  were  stunned  by  this  quick  attack.  Uncle 
Peabody  rose  suddenly  and  sat  down  again.  Mr. 
Grimshaw  looked  at  him  with  a  strange  smile  and 
a  taunting  devilish  laugh  came  out  of  his  open  lips. 

Uncle  Peabody,  keeping  his  temper,  shook  his 
head  and  calmly  said:  "No  I  ain't  anything  ag'in' 
you  or  Amos,  but  it's  got  to  be  so  that  a  man  can 
travel  the  roads  o'  this  town  without  gettin'  his 
head  blowed  off." 

Mr.  Dunkelberg  jumped  into  the  breach  then,  say 
ing: 

"I  told  Mr.  Grimshaw  that  you  hadn't  any  grudge 
against  him  or  his  boy  and  that  I  knew  you'd  do 
what  you  could  to  help  in  this  matter." 

"Of  course  I'll  help  in  any  way  I  can,"  my  uncle 
answered.  "I  couldn't  harm  him  if  I  tried — not  if 
he's  innocent.  All  he's  got  to  do  is  to  prove  where 
he  was  that  night." 

"Suppose  he  was  lost  in  the  woods?"  Mr.  Dun 
kelberg  asked. 

"The  truth  wouldn't  harm  him  any,"  my  uncle 
insisted.  "Them  tracks  wouldn't  fit  his  boots,  an' 
they'd  have  to." 

Mr.  Dunkelberg  turned  to  me  and  asked: 


228      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

"Are  you  sure  that  the  stock  of  the  gun  you  saw 
was  broken?" 

"Yes,  sir — and  I'm  almost  sure  it  was  Amos  that 
ran  away  with  it." 

"Why?" 

"I  picked  up  a  stone  and  threw  it  at  him  and  it 
grazed  the  left  side  of  his  face,  and  the  other  night 
I  saw  the  scar  it  made." 

My  aunt  and  uncle  and  Mr.  Dunkelberg  moved 
with  astonishment  as  I  spoke  of  the  scar.  Mr. 
Grimshaw,  with  keen  eyes  fixed  upon  me,  gave  a 
little  grunt  of  incredulity. 

"Huh! — Liar!"  he  muttered. 

"I  am  not  a  liar,"  I  declared  with  indignation, 
whereupon  my  aunt  angrily  stirred  the  fire  in  the 
Stove  and  Uncle  Peabody  put  his  hand  on  my  arm 
and  said ; 

"Hush,  Bart !    Keep  your  temper,  son." 

"If  you  tell  these  things  you  may  be  the  means 
of  sending  an  innocent  boy  to  his  death,"  Mr.  Dun 
kelberg  said  to  me.  "I  wouldn't  be  too  sure  about 
Jem  if  I  were  you.  It's  so  easy  to  be  mistaken. 
You  couldn't  be  sure  in  the  dusk  that  the  stone 
really  hit  him,  could  you?" 

I  answered:  "Yes,  sir — I  saw  the  stone  hit  and 
I  saw  him  put  his  hand  on  the  place  while  he  was 
limning,  J  gues§  it  hurt  him  some." 


PRESIDENT  VAN  BUREN  229' 

"Look  a'  here,  Baynes,"  Mr.  Grimshaw  began  in 
that  familiar  scolding  tone  of  his.  "I  know  what 
you  want  an'  we  might  jest  as  well  git  right  down 
to  business  first  as  last  You  keep  this  boy  still  an' 
I'll  give  ye  five  years'  interest." 

Aunt  Deel  gave  a  gasp  and  quickly  covered  her 
mouth  with  her  hand.  Uncle  Peabody  changed  color 
as  he  rose  from  his  chair  with  a  strange  look  on  his 
face.  He  swung  his  big  right  hand  in  the  air  as  he 
said: 

"By  the  eternal  jumpin' — " 

He  stopped,  pulled  down  the  left  sleeve  of  his 
flannel  shirt  and  walked  to  the  water  pail  and  drank 
out  of  the  dipper. 

"The  times  are  hard,"  Grimshaw  resumed  in  a 
milder  tone.  "These  days  the  rich  men  dunno  what's 
a-comin'  to  'em.  If  you  don't  have  no  interest  to 
pay  you  ought  to  git  along  easy  an'  give  this  boy  the 
eddication  of  a  Sile  Wright." 

There  was  that  in  his  tone  and  face  which  indi 
cated  that  in  his  opinion  Sile  had  more  "eddication" 
than  any  man  needed. 

"Say,  Mr.  Grimshaw,  I'm  awful  sorry  for  ye," 
said  my  uncle  as  he  returned  to  his  chair,  "but  I've 
always  learnt  this  boy  to  tell  the  truth  an'  the  hull 
truth.  I  know  the  danger  I'm  in.  We're  gettin' 
old.  It'll  be  hard  to  start  over  ag'in  an'  you  can 


230       THE  LIOHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

ruin  us  if  ye  want  to  an'  I'm  as  scared  o'  ye  as  a 
mouse  in  a  cat's  paw,  but  this  boy  has  got  to  tell  the 
truth  right  out  plain.  I  couldn't  muzzle  him  if  I 
tried — he's  too  much  of  a  man.  If  you're  scared 
o'  the  truth  you  mus'  know  that  Amos  is  guilty." 

Mr.  Grimshaw  shook  his  head  with  anger  and 
beat  the  floor  with  the  end  of  his  cane. 

"Nobody  knows  anything  o'  the  kind,  Baynes," 
said  Mr.  Dunkelberg.  "Of  course  Amos  never 
thought  o'  killing  anybody.  He's  a  harmless  kind 
of  a  boy.  I  know  him  well  and  so  do  you.  The 
only  thing  that  anybody  ever  heard  against  him  is 
that  he's  a  little  lazy.  Under  the  circumstances  Mr. 
Grimshaw  is  afraid  that  Bart's  story  will  make  it 
difficult  for  Amos  to  prove  his  innocence.  Just 
think  of  it.  That  boy  was  lost  and  wandering 
around  in  the  woods  at  the  time  o'  the  murder.  As 
to  that  scar,  Amos  says  that  he  ran  into  a  stub  when 
he  was  going  through  a  thicket  in  the  night." 

Uncle  Peabody  shook  his  head  with  a  look  of  firm 
ness. 

Again  Grimshaw  laughed  between  his  teeth  as  he 
looked  at  my  uncle.  In  his  view  every  man  had  his 
price. 

"I  see  that  I'm  the  mouse  an'  you're  the  cat,"  he 
resumed,  as  that  curious  laugh  rattled  in  his  throat. 
"Look  a'  here,  Baynes,  I'll  tell  ye  what  I'll  do.  I'll 
cancel  the  hull  mortgage." 


PRESIDENT  VAN  BUREN  231 

Again  Uncle  Peabody  rose  from  his  chair  with 
a  look  in  his  face  which  I  have  never  forgotten. 
How  his  voice  rang  out ! 

"No,  sir!"  he  shouted  so  loudly  that  we  all 
jumped  to  our  feet  and  Aunt  Deel  covered  her  face 
with  her  apron  and  began  to  cry.  It  was  like  the 
explosion  of  a  blast.  Then  the  fragments  began 
falling  with  a  loud  crash : 

"NO,  SIR!  YE  CAN'T  BUY  THE  NAIL  ON 
MY  LITTLE  FINGER  OR  HIS  WITH  ALL 
YER  MONEY— DAMN  YOU!" 

It  was  like  the  shout  of  Israel  from  the  top  of  the 
mountains.  Shep  bounced  into  the  house  with  hair 
on  end  and  the  chickens  cackled  and  the  old  rooster 
clapped  his  wings  and  crowed  with  all  the  power  of 
his  lungs.  Every  member  of  that  little  group  stood 
stock-still  and  breathless. 

I  trembled  with  a  fear  I  could  not  have  defined. 
Quick  relief  came  when,  straightway,  my  uncle  went 
out  of  the  room  and  stood  on  the  stoop,  back  toward 
us,  and  blew  his  nose  vigorously  with  his  big  red 
handkerchief.  He  stood  still  looking  down  and 
wiping  his  eyes.  Mr.  Grimshaw  shuffled  out  of  the 
door,  his  cane  rapping  the  floor  as  if  his  arm  had 
been  stricken  with  palsy  in  a  moment. 

Mr.  Dunkelberg  turned  to  my  aunt,  his  face  scar 
let,  and  muttered  an  apology  for  the  disturbance  and 
followed  the  money-lender. 


232      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

I  remember  that  my  own  eyes  were  wet  as  I  went 
to  my  aunt  and  kissed  her.  She  kissed  me — a  rare 
thing  for  her  to  do — and  whispered  brokenly  but 
with  a  smile :  "We'll  go  down  to  the  poorhouse  to 
gether,  Bart,  but  we'll  go  honest." 

"Come  on,  Bart,"  Uncle  Peabody  called  cheerfully, 
as  he  walked  toward  the  barnyard.  "Le's  go  an' 
git  in  them  but'nuts." 

He  paid  no  attention  to  our  visitors — neither  did 
my  aunt,  who  followed  us.  The  two  men  talked 
together  a  moment,  unhitched  their  horses,  got  into 
their  buggies  and  drove  away.  The  great  red 
rooster  had  stood  on  the  fence  eying  them.  As 
they  turned  their  horses  and  drove  slowly  toward 
the  gate,  he  clapped  his  wings  and  crowed  lustily. 

"Give  it  to  'em,  oF  Dick,"  said  Uncle  Peabody 
with  a  clap  of  his  hands.  "Tell  'em  what  ye  think 
of  'em." 

At  last  the  Dunkelbergs  had  fallen — the  legend 
ary,  incomparable  Dunkelbergs! 

"Wai,  I'm  surprised  at  Mr.  Horace  Dunkelberg 
tryin'  to  come  it  over  us  like  that — ayes !  I  be,"  said 
Aunt  Deel. 

"Wai,  I  ain't,"  said  Uncle  Peabody.  "OF  Grim- 
shaw  has  got  him  under  his  thumb — that's  what's 
the  matter.  You'll  find  he's  up  to  his  ears  in  debt 
to  Grimshaw — prob'ly." 

As  we  followed  him  toward  the  house,  he  pushing 


PRESIDENT  VAN  BTJEEN  233 

the  wheelbarrow  loaded  with  sacks  of  nuts,  he 
added : 

"At  last  Grimshaw  has  found  somethin'  that  he 
can't  buy  an'  he's  awful  surprised.  Too  bad  he 
didn't  learn  that  lesson  long  ago." 

He  stopped  his  wheelbarrow  by  the  steps  and 
we  sat  down  together  on  the  edge  of  the  stoop  as 
he  added: 

"I  got  mad — they  kep'  pickin'  on  me  so — I'm 
sorry,  but  I  couldn't  help  it.  We'll  start  up  ag'in 
somewheres  if  we  have  to.  There's  a  good  many 
days'  work  in  me  yet." 

As  we  carried  the  bags  to  the  attic  room  I  thought 
of  the  lodestone  and  the  compass  and  knew  that  Mr. 
Wright  had  foreseen  what  was  likely  to  happen. 
When  we  came  down  Uncle  Peabody  said  to  me : 

"Do  you  remember  what  you  read  out  of  a  book 
one  night  about  a  man  sellin'  his  honor?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered.  "It's  one  o'  the  books  that 
Mr.  Wright  gave  us." 

"It's  somethin'  purty  common  sense,"  he  re 
marked,  "an"  we  stopped  and  talked  it  over.  I  wish 
you'd  git  the  book  an'  read  it  now." 

I  found  the  book  and  read  aloud  the  following 
passage : 

"Honor  is  a  strange  commodity.  It  can  not  be 
divided  and  sold  in  part.  All  or  none  is  the  rule 
of  the  market.  While  it  can  be  sold  in  a  way,  it 


234       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

can  not  be  truly  bought.  It  vanishes  in  the  transfer 
of  its  title  and  is  no  more.  Who  seeks  to  buy  it  gains 
only  loss.  It  is  the  one  thing  which  distinguishes 
manhood  from  property.  Who  sells  his  honor  sells 
his  manhood  and  becomes  simply  a  thing  of  meat 
and  blood  and  bones — a  thing  to  be  watched  and 
driven  and  cudgelled  like  the  ox — for  he  has  sold 
that  he  can  not  buy,  not  if  all  the  riches  in  the  world 
were  his." 

A  little  silence  followed  the  words.  Then  Uncle 
Peabody  said : 

"That's  the  kind  o'  stuff  in  our  granary.  We've 
been  reapin'  it  out  o'  the  books  Mr.  Grimshaw 
scolded  about,  a  little  here  an*  a  little  there  for  years, 
an*  we  knew  it  was  good  wheat.  If  he  had  books 
like  that  in  his  house  mebbe  Amos  would  'a'  been 
different.  An'  he'd  'a'  been  different.  He  wouldn't 
'a*  had  to  come  here  tryin'  to  buy  our  honor  like 
you'd  buy  a  hoss." 

"Oh,  dear!"  Aunt  Deel  exclaimed  wearily,  with 
her  hands  over  her  eyes ;  "a  boy  has  to  have  some- 
thin'  besides  pigs  an'  cattle  an'  threats  an'  stones  an' 
hoss  dung  an'  cow  manure  to  take  up  his  mind." 

Uncle  Peabody  voiced  my  own  feeling  when  he 
said: 

"I  feel  sorry,  awful  sorry,  for  that  boy." 

We  spent  a  silent  afternoon  gathering  apples. 
After  supper  we  played  Old  Sledge  and  my  uncle 


PRESIDENT  VAN  BUREN  235 

had  hard  work  to  keep  us  in  good  countenance.  We 
went  to  bed  early  and  I  lay  long  hearing  the  autumn 
wind  in  the  popple  leaves  and  thinking  of  that  great 
thing  which  had  grown  strong  within  us,  little  by 
little,  in  the  candle-light. 


CHAPTER  XI 

A    PARTY    AND MY    FOURTH    PERIL? 

"    y4  DEAD  fish  can  swim  down-stream  but  only 
/  ^      a  live  one  can  swim  up  it,"  said  Uncle 
A       m    Peabody  as  we  rode  toward  the  village 
together.    We  had  been  talking  of  that  strong  cur 
rent  of  evil  which  had  tried  to  carry  us  along  with 
it.  I  understood  him  perfectly. 

It  was  a  rainy  Sunday.  In  the  middle  of  the 
afternoon  Uncle  Peabody  and  I  had  set  out  in  our 
spring  buggy  with  the  family  umbrella — a  faded 
but  sacred  implement,  always  carefully  dried,  after 
using,  and  hung  in  the  clothes  press.  I  remember 
that  its  folded  skirt  was  as  big  around  as  my  coat 
sleeve  and  that  Uncle  Peabody  always  grasped  it 
in  the  middle,  with  hand  about  its  waist,  in  a  way 
of  speaking,  when  he  carried  it  after  a  shower.  The 
rain  came  on  again  and  with  such  violence  that  we 
were  drenched  to  the  skin  in  spite  of  the  umbrella. 
It  was  still  raining  when  we  arrived  at  the  familiar 
door  in  Ashery  Lane.  Uncle  Peabody  wouldn't 
stop. 

236 


A  PARTY  AND— MY  FOURTH  PERIL?    237 

"Water  never  scares  a  live  fish,"  he  declared  with 
a  chuckle  as  he  turned  around.  "Good-by,  Bart." 

He  hurried  away.  We  pioneers  rarely  stopped 
or  even  turned  out  for  the  weather.  Uncle  Peabody 
used  to  say  that  the  way  to  get  sick  was  to  change 
your  clothes  every  time  you  got  wet.  It  was  grow 
ing  dusk  and  I  felt  sorry  for  him. 

"Come  in,"  said  the  voice  of  the  schoolmaster  at 
the  door.  "There's  good  weather  under  this  roof." 

He  saw  my  plight  as  I  entered. 

"I'm  like  a  shaggy  dog  that's  been  in  swimming," 
I  said. 

"Upon  my  word,  boy,  we're  in  luck,"  remarked 
the  schoolmaster. 

I  looked  up  at  him. 

"Michael  Henry's  clothes ! — sure,  they're  just  the 
thing  for  you!" 

"Will  they  go  on  me?"  I  asked,  for,  being  large 
of  my  age,  I  had  acquired  an  habitual  shyness  of 
things  that  were  too  small  for  me,  and  things,  too, 
had  seemed  to  have  got  the  habit  of  being  too 
small. 

"As  easily  as  Nick  Tubbs  goes  on  a  spree,  and  far 
more  becoming,  for  I  do  not  think  a  spree  ever  looks 
worse  than  when  Tubbs  is  on  it.  Come  with  me." 

I  followed  him  up-stairs,  wondering  how  it  had 
happened  that  Michael  Henry  had  clothes. 

He  took  me  into  his  room  and  brought  some 


238      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

handsome  soft  clothes  out  of  a  press  with  shirt, 
socks  and  boots  to  match. 

"There,  my  laddie  buck,"  said  he,  "put  them  on." 

"These  will  soon  dry  on  me,"  I  said. 

"Put  them  on — ye  laggard !  Michael  Henry  told 
me  to  give  them  to  you.  It's  the  birthday  night  o' 
little  Ruth,  my  boy.  There's  a  big  cake  with  can 
dles  and  chicken  pie  and  jellied  cookies  and  all  the 
like  o'  that.  Put  them  on.  A  wet  boy  at  the  feast 
would  dampen  the  whole  proceedings." 

I  put  them  on  and  with  a  great  sense  of  relief  and 
comfort.  They  were  an  admirable  fit — too  perfect 
for  an  accident,  although  at  the  time  I  thought  only 
of  their  grandeur  as  I  stood  surveying  myself  in  the 
looking-glass.  They  were  of  blue  cloth  and  I  saw 
that  they  went  well  with  my  blond  hair  and  light 
skin.  I  was  putting  on  my  collar  and  necktie  when 
Mr.  Hacket  returned. 

"God  bless  ye,  boy,"  said  he.  "There's  not  a  bear 
in  the  township  whose  coat  and  trousers  are  a  bet 
ter  fit.  Sure  if  ye  had  on  a  beaver  hat  ye'd  look  like 
a  lawyer  or  a  statesman.  Boy!  How  delighted 
Michael  Henry  will  be !  Come  on  now.  The  table 
is  spread  and  the  feast  is  waiting.  Mind  ye,  give 
a  good  clap  when  I  come  in  with  the  guest." 

We  went  below  and  the  table  was  very  grand  with 
its  great  frosted  cake  and  its  candles,  in  shiny  brass 
sticks,  and  its  jellies  and  preserves  with  the  gleam  of 


A  PARTY  AND — MY  FOURTH  PERIL?    239 

polished  pewter  among  them.  Mrs.  Hacket  and  all 
the  children,  save  Ruth,  were  waiting  for  us  in  the 
dining-room. 

"Now  sit  down  here,  all  o'  ye,  with  Michael 
Henry,"  said  the  schoolmaster.  "The  little  lady 
will  be  impatient.  I'll  go  and  get  her  and  God  help 
us  to  make  her  remember  the  day." 

He  was  gone  a  moment,  only,  when  he  came  back 
with  Ruth  in  lovely  white  dress  and  slippers  and  gay 
with  ribbons,  and  the  silver  beads  of  Mary  on  her 
neck.  We  clapped  our  hands  and  cheered  and,  in 
the  excitement  of  the  moment,  John  tipped  over  his 
drinking  glass  and  shattered  it  on  the  floor. 

"Never  mind,  my  brave  lad — no  glass  ever  per 
ished  in  a  better  cause.  God  bless  you !" 

What  a  merry  time  we  had  in  spite  of  recurring 
thoughts  of  Uncle  Peabody  and  the  black  horse  toil 
ing  over  the  dark  hills  and  flats  in  the  rain  toward 
the  lonely  farm  and  the  lonelier,  beloved  woman 
who  awaited  him !  There  were  many  shadows  in  the 
way  of  happiness  those  days  but,  after  all,  youth  has 
a  way  of  speeding  through  them — hasn't  it? 

We  ate  and  jested  and  talked,  and  the  sound  of 
our  laughter  drowned  the  cry  of  the  wind  in  the 
chimney  and  the  drumming  of  the  rain  upon  the 
windows. 

In  the  midst  of  it  all  Mr.  Hacket  arose  and  tapped 
his  cup  with  his  spoon. 


240      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

"Oh  you  merry,  God-blessed  people,"  he  said. 
"Michael  Henry  has  bade  me  speak  for  him." 

The  schoolmaster  took  out  of  his  pocketbook  a 
folded  sheet  of  paper.  As  he  opened  it  a  little, 
golden,  black-tipped  feather  fell  upon  the  table. 

"Look !  here  is  a  plume  o'  the  golden  robin,"  the 
schoolmaster  went  on.  "He  dropped  it  in  our  gar 
den  yesterday  to  lighten  ship,  I  fancied,  before  he 
left,  the  summer's  work  and  play  being  ended.  Ye 
should  V  seen  Michael  Henry  when  he  looked  at 
the  feather.  How  it  tickled  his  fancy !  I  gave  him 
my  thought  about  it. 

"  'Nay,  father/  he  answered.  'Have  ye  forgot 
ten  that  to-morrow  is  the  birthday  o'  our  little  Ruth  ? 
The  bird  knew  it  and  brought  this  gift  to  her.  It 
is  out  o'  the  great  gold  mines  o'  the  sky  which  are 
the  richest  in  the  world.' 

"Then  these  lines  came  off  his  tongue,  with  no 
more  hesitation  about  it  than  the  bird  has  when  he 
sings  his  song  on  a  bright  summer  morning  and  I 
put  them  down  to  go  with  the  feather.  Here  they 
are  now: 

TO  RUTH 

"  Tittle  lady,  draw  thy  will 
With  this  Golden  Robin's  quill — 
Sun-stained,  night-tipped,  elfish  thing — • 
Symbol  of  thy  magic  wing! 


A  PARTY  AND — MY  FOURTH  PERIL?    241 

"  'Give  to  me  thy  fairy  lands 
And  palaces,  on  silver  sands. 
Oh  will  to  me,  my  heart  implores, 
Their  alabaster  walls  and  floors ! 
Their  gates  that  ope  on  Paradise 
Or  earth,  or  Eden  in  a  trice. 
Give  me  thy  title  to  the  hours 
That  pass  in  fair  Aladdin  towers. 
But  most  I'd  prize  thy  heavenly  art 
To  win  and  lead  the  stony  heart. 
Give  these  to  me  that  solemn  day 
Thou'rtdone  with  them,  I  humbly  pray. 

"  'Little  lady,  draw  thy  will 
With  this  Golden  Robin's  quill/  ' 

He  bowed  to  our  young  guest  and  kissed  her  hand 
and  sat  down  in  the  midst  of  our  cheering. 

I  remember  well  the  delightful  sadness  that  came 
into  my  heart  on  the  musical  voice  of  the  reader. 
The  lines,  simple  as  they  were,  opened  a  new  gate 
in  my  imagination  beyond  which  I  heard  often  the 
sound  of  music  and  flowing  fountains  and  caught 
glimpses,  now  and  then,  of  magic  towers  and  walls 
of  alabaster.  There  had  been  no  fairies  in  Lickity- 
split.  Two  or  three  times  I  had  come  upon  fairy 
footprints  in  the  books  which  Mr.  Wright  had  sent 
to  us,  but  neither  my  aunt  nor  my  uncle  could  explain 
whence  they  came  or  the  nature  of  their  errand. 

Mr.  Hacket  allowed  me  to  write  down  the  lines 


242       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

in  my  little  diary  of  events  and  expenses,  from  which 
I  have  just  copied  them. 

We  sang  and  spoke  pieces  until  nine  o'clock  and 
then  we  older  members  of  the  party  fell  to  with 
Mrs.  Hacket  and  washed  and  dried  the  dishes  and 
put  them  away. 

Next  morning  my  clothes,  which  had  been  hung 
by  the  kitchen  stove,  were  damp  and  wrinkled.  Mr. 
Hacket  came  to  my  room  before  I  had  risen. 

"Michael  Henry  would  rather  see  his  clothes 
hanging  on  a  good  boy  than  on  a  nail  in  the  closet," 
said  he.  "Sure  they  give  no  comfort  to  the  nail  at 
all." 

"I  guess  mine  are  dry  now,"  I  answered. 

"They're  wet  and  heavy,  boy.  No  son  o'  Baldur 
could  keep  a  light  heart  in  them.  Sure  ye'd  be  as 
much  out  o'  place  as  a  sunbeam  in  a  cave  o'  bats. 
If  ye  care  not  for  your  own  comfort  think  o'  the 
poor  lad  in  the  green  chair.  He's  that  proud  and 
pleased  to  see  them  on  ye  it  would  be  a  shame  to 
reject  his  offer.  Sure,  if  they  were  dry  yer  own 
garments  would  be  good  enough,  God  knows,  but 
Michael  Henry  loves  the  look  o'  ye  in  these  togs  and 
then  the  President  is  in  town." 

That  evening  he  discovered  a  big  stain,  black  as 
ink,  on  my  coat  and  trousers.  Mr.  Hacket  ex 
pressed  the  opinion  that  it  might  have  come  from 
the  umbrella  but  I  am  quite  sure  that  he  had  spotted 


A  PARTY  AND — MY  FOURTH  PERIL?     243 

them  to  save  me  from  the  last  home-made  suit  I  ever 
wore,  save  in  rough  work,  and  keep  Michael 
Henry's  on  my  back.  In  any  event  I  wore 
them  no  more  save  at  chore  time. 

I  began  to  make  good  progress  in  my  studies  that 
week  and  to  observe  the  affection  with  which  Mr. 
Racket  was  regarded  in  the  school  and  village.  I 
remember  that  his  eyes  gave  out  and  had  to  be 
bandaged  but  the  boys  and  girls  in  his  room  be 
haved  even  better  than  before.  It  was  curious  to 
observe  how  the  older  ones  controlled  the  younger 
in  that  emergency. 

Sally  came  and  went,  with  the  Wills  boy,  and 
gave  no  heed  to  me.  In  her  eyes  I  had  no  more 
substance  than  a  ghost,  it  seemed  to  me,  although 
I  caught  her,  often,  looking  at  me.  I  judged  that 
her  father  had  given  her  a  bad  report  of  us  and 
had  some  regrets,  in  spite  of  my  knowledge  that 
we  were  right,  although  they  related  mostly  to  Amos. 

Next  afternoon  I  saw  Mr.  Wright  and  the  Presi 
dent  walking  back  and  forth  on  the  bridge  as  they 
talked  together.  A  number  of  men  stood  in  front 
of  the  blacksmith  shop,  by  the  river  shore,  watching 
them,  as  I  passed,  on  my  way  to  the  mill  on  an  er 
rand.  The  two  statesmen  were  in  broadcloth  and 
white  linen  and  beaver  hats.  They  stopped  as  I 
approached  them. 

"Well,  partner,  we  shall  be  leaving  in  an  hour 


244       THE  LIGHT  IN -THE  CLEARING 

or  so,"  said  Mr.  Wright  as  he  gave  me  his  hand. 
"You  may  look  for  me  here  soon  after  the  close  of 
the  session.  Take  care  of  yourself  and  go  often  to 
see  Mrs.  Wright  and  obey  your  captain  and  remem 
ber  me  to  your  aunt  and  uncle/' 

"See  that  you  keep  coming,  my  good  boy/'  said 
the  President  as  he  gave  me  his  hand,  with  playful 
reference,  no  doubt,  to  Mr.  Wright's  remark  that 
I  was  a  coming  man. 

"Bart,  I've  some  wheat  to  be  threshed  in  the  barn 
on  the  back  lot,"  said  the  Senator  as  I  was  leaving 
them.  "You  can  do  it  Saturdays,  if  you  care  to, 
at  a  shilling  an  hour.  Stack  the  straw  out-of-doors 
until  you've  finished  then  put  it  back  in  the  bay. 
Winnow  the  wheat  carefully  and  sack  it  and  bring 
it  down  to  the  granary  and  I'll  settle  with  you  when 
I  return." 

I  remember  that  a  number  of  men  who  worked  in 
Grimshaw's  saw-mill  were  passing  as  he  spoke. 

"Yes,  sir,"  I  answered,  much  elated  by  the  pros 
pect  of  earning  money. 

I  left  with  a  feeling  of  keen  disappointment  that 
I  was  to  see  so  little  of  my  distinguished  friend  and 
a  thought  of  the  imperious  errands  of  men  which 
put  the  broad  reaches  of  the  earth  between  friend 
and  friend. 

I  remember  repeating  to  myself  the  words  of  the 


A  PARTY  AND — MY  FOURTH  PERIL?    245 

Senator  which  began :  "You  may  look  for  me  here 
soon  after  the  close  of  the  session/'  in  the  tone  in 
which  he  had  said  them.  As  of  old,  I  admired  and 
tried  to  imitate  his  dignity  of  speech  and  bearing. 

When  I  returned  from  the  mill  they  were  gone. 

The  examination  of  Amos  was  set  down  for 
Monday  and  the  people  of  the  village  were  stirred 
and  shaken  by  wildest  rumors  regarding  the  evi 
dence  to  be  adduced.  Every  day  men  and  women 
stopped  me  in  the  street  to  ask  what  I  knew  of  the 
murder.  I  followed  the  advice  of  Bishop  Perkins 
and  kept  my  knowledge  to  myself. 

My  life  went  on  at  the  same  kindly,  merry  pace 
in  the  home  of  the  schoolmaster.  The  bandages  over 
his  eyes  had  in  no  way  clouded  his  spirit. 

"Ah,  now,  I  wish  that  I  could  see  you,"  he  said 
one  evening  when  we  were  all  laughing  at  some  re 
mark  of  his.  "I  love  the  look  of  a  merry  face." 

I  continued  to  wear  the  mysterious  clothes  of 
Michael  Henry,  save  at  chore  time,  when  I  put  on 
the  spotted  suit  of  homespun.  I  observed  that  it 
made  a  great  difference  with  my  social  standing.  I 
was  treated  with  a  greater  deference  at  the  school, 
and  Elizabeth  Allen  invited  me  to  her  party,  to 
which,  however,  I  had  not  the  courage  to  go,  hav 
ing  no  idea  what  happened  to  one  at  a  village  party. 

I  asked  a  boy  in  my  Latin  class  to  tell  me. 


246      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

"Oh,  ye  just  fly  around  an'  kiss  and  git  kissed  till 
ye  feel  like  a  fool." 

That  settled  it  for  me.  Not  that  I  would  have 
failed  to  enjoy  kissing  Sally,  but  we  were  out,  as 
they  used  to  say,  and  it  would  have  embarrassed 
both  of  us  to  meet  at  a  party. 

Saturday  came  and,  when  the  chores  were  done, 
I  went  alone  to  the  grain  barn  in  the  back  lot  of  the 
Senator's  farm  with  flail  and  measure  and  broom 
and  fork  and  shovel  and  sacks  and  my  luncheon, 
in  a  push  cart,  with  all  of  which  Mrs.  Wright  had 
provided  me. 

It  was  a  lonely  place  with  woods  on  three  sides 
of  the  field  and  a  road  on  the  other.  I  kept  laying 
down  beds  of  wheat  on  the  barn-floor  and  beating 
them  out  with  the  flail  until  the  sun  was  well  over 
the  roof  when  I  sat  down  to  eat  my  luncheon.  Then 
I  swept  up  the  grain  and  winnowed  out  the  chaff 
and  filled  one  of  my  sacks.  That  done,  I  covered 
the  floor  again  and  the  thump  of  the  flail  eased  my 
loneliness  until  in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  two 
of  my  schoolmates  came  and  asked  me  to  go  swim 
ming  with  them.  The  river  was  not  forty  rods 
away  and  a  good  trail  led  to  the  swimming  hole.  It 
was  a  warm  bright  day  and  I  was  hot  and  thirsty. 
The  thought  of  cool  waters  and  friendly  compan 
ionship  was  too  much  for  me.  I  went  with  them. 

More  ancient  than  the  human  form  is  that  joy  of 


A  PARTY  AND — MY  FOURTH  PERIL?     247 

the  young  in  the  feel  of  air  and  water  on  the  naked 
skin,  in  the  frog-like  leap  and  splash  and  the  mon 
key-chatter  of  the  swimming  hole.  There  wTere  a 
number  of  the  "swamp  boys"  in  the  water.  They 
lived  in  cabins  on  the  edges  of  the  near  swamp.  I 
stayed  with  them  longer  than  I  intended.  I  remem 
ber  saying  as  I  dressed  that  I  should  have  to  w^ork 
late  and  go  without  my  supper  in  order  to  finish 
my  stent. 

It  was  almost  dark  when  I  was  putting  the  last 
sack  of  wheat  into  my  cart,  in  the  gloomy  barn,  and 
getting  ready  to  go. 

A  rustling  in  the  straw  near  where  I  stood  stopped 
me  suddenly.  My  skin  prickled  and  began  to  stir 
on  my  head  and  my  feet  and  hands  felt  numb  with 
a  new  fear.  I  heard  stealthy  footsteps  in  the  dark 
ness.  I  stood  my  ground  and  demanded : 

"Who's  there?" 

I  saw  a  form  approaching  in  the  gloom  with  feet 
as  noiseless  as  a  cat's.  I  took  a  step  backward  and, 
seeing  that  it  \vas  a  \voman,  stopped. 

"It's  Kate,"  the  answer  came  in  a  hoarse  whisper 
as  I  recognized  her  form  and  staff. 

"Run,  boy — they  have  just  come  out  o'  the 
woods.  I  saw  them.  They  \vill  take  you  awray. 
Run." 

She  had  picked  up  the  flail  and  now  she  put  it  in 
my  hands  and  gave  me  a  push  toward  the  door.  I 


248       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

ran,  and  none  too  quickly,  for  I  had  not  gone  fifty 
feet  from  the  barn  in  the  stubble  when  I  heard  them 
coming  after  me,  whoever  they  were.  I  saw  that 
they  were  gaining  and  turned  quickly.  I  had  time 
to  raise  my  flail  and  bring  it  down  upon  the  head 
of  the  leader,  who  fell  as  I  had  seen  a  beef  fall 
under  the  ax.  Another  man  stopped  beyond  the 
reach  of  my  flail  and,  after  a  second's  hesitation, 
turned  and  ran  away  in  the  darkness. 

I  could  hear  or  see  no  other  motion  in  the  field. 
I  turned  and  ran  on  down  the  slope  toward  the  vil 
lage.  In  a  moment  I  saw  some  one  coming  out  of 
the  maple  grove  at  the  field's  end,  just  ahead,  with 
a  lantern. 

Then  I  heard  the  voice  of  the  schoolmaster  say 
ing: 

"Is  it  you,  my  lad?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  as  I  came  up  to  him  and  Mary, 
in  a  condition  of  breathless  excitement. 

I  told  them  of  the  curious  adventure  I  had  had. 

"Come  quick,"  said  the  schoolmaster.  "Let's  go 
back  and  find  the  man  in  the  stubble." 

I  remembered  that  I  had  struck  the  path  in  my 
flight  just  before  stopping  to  swing  the  flail.  The 
man  must  have  fallen  very  near  it.  Soon  we  found 
where  he  had  been  lying  and  drops  of  fresh  blood  on 
the  stubble. 

"Hush,"  said  the  schoolmaster. 


A  PARTY  AND — MY  FOURTH  PERIL?     249 

We  listened  and  heard  a  wagon  rattling  at  a  wikl 
pace  down  the  road  toward  the  river. 

"There  he  goes,"  said  Mr.  Racket.  "His  com 
panions  have  carried  him  away.  Ye'd  be  riding  in 
that  wagon  now,  yerself,  my  brave  lad,  if  ye  hadn't 
'a'  made  a  lucky  hit  with  the  flail — God  bless  ye  1" 

"What  would  they  'a'  done  with  me?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  I  reckon  they'd  'a'  took  ye  off,  lad,  and  kep' 
ye  for  a  year  or  so  until  Amos  was  out  o'  danger," 
said  Mr.  Hacket.  "Maybe  they'd  drowned  ye  in 
the  river  down  there  an'  left  yer  clothes  on  the  bank 
to  make  it  look  like  an  honest  drowning.  The  devil 
knows  what  they'd  'a'  done  with  ye,  laddie  buck. 
We'll  have  to  keep  an  eye  on  ye  now,  every  day  until 
the  trial  is  over — sure  we  will.  Come,  we'll  go  up 
to  the  barn  and  see  if  Kate  is  there." 

Just  then  we  heard  the  receding  wagon  go  roaring 
over  the  bridge  on  Little  River.  Mary  shuddered 
with  fright.  The  schoolmaster  reassured  us  by  say 
ing: 

"Don't  be  afraid.  I  brought  my  gun  in  case  we'd 
meet  a  painter.  But  the  danger  is  past." 

He  drew  a  long  pistol  from  his  coat  pocket  and 
held  it  in  the  light  of  the  lantern. 

The  loaded  cart  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  barn 
floor,  where  I  had  left  it,  but  old  Kate  had  gone. 
We  closed  the  barn,  drawing  the  cart  along  with  us. 
When  we  came  into  the  edge  of  the  village  I  began 


250       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

to  reflect  upon  the  strange  peril  out  of  which  I  had 
so  luckily  escaped.  It  gave  me  a  heavy  sense  of  re 
sponsibility  and  of  the  wickedness  of  men. 

I  thought  of  old  Kate  and  her  broken  silence. 
For  once  I  had  heard  her  speak.  I  could  feel  my 
flesh  tingle  when  I  thought  of  her  quick  words  and 
her  hoarse  passionate  whisper.  She  must  have 
come  into  the  barn  while  I  was  swimming  and  hid 
den  behind  the  straw  heap  in  the  rear  end  of  it  and 
watched  the  edge  of  the  woods  through  the  many 
cracks  in  the  boarding. 

I  knew,  or  thought  I  knew,  why  she  took  such 
care  of  me.  She  was  in  league  with  the  gallows 
and  could  not  bear  to  see  it  cheated  of  its  prey. 
For  some  reason  she  hated  the  Grimshaws.  I  had 
seen  the  hate  in  her  eyes  the  day  she  dogged  along 
behind  the  old  money-lender  through  the  streets 
of  the  village  when  her  pointing  finger  had  seemed 
to  say  to  me:  "There,  there  is  the  man  who  has 
brought  me  to  this.  He  has  put  these  rags  upon 
my  back,  this  fire  in  my  heart,  this  wild  look  in  my 
eyes.  Wait  and  you  shall  see  what  I  will  put  upon 
him." 

I  knew  that  old  Kate  was  not  the  irresponsible, 
witless  creature  that  people  thought  her  to  be.  I 
had  begun  to  think  of  her  with  a  kind  of  awe  as 
one  gifted  above  all  others.  One  by  one  the  things 


A  PARTY  AND — MY  FOURTH  PERIL?     251 

she  had  said  of  the  future  seemed  to  be  coming 
true. 

When  we  had  pulled  the  cart  into  the  stable  I 
tried  to  shift  one  of  the  bags  of  grain  and  observed 
that  my  hands  trembled  and  that  it  seemed  very 
heavy. 

As  we  were  going  into  the  house  the  schoolmaster 
said: 

"Now,  Mary,  you  take  this  lantern  and  go  across 
the  street  to  the  house  o'  Deacon  Binks,  the  con 
stable.  You'll  find  him  asleep  by  the  kitchen  stove. 
Arrest  his  slumbers,  but  not  rudely,  and,  when  he 
has  come  to,  tell  him  that  I  have  news  o'  the  devil." 

"This  shows  the  power  o'  knowledge,  Bart,"  he 
said  to  me  when  we  entered  the  house. 

I  wondered  what  he  meant  and  he  went  on: 

"You  have  knowledge  of  the  shooting  that  no 
other  man  has.  You  could  sell  it  for  any  money  ye 
would  ask.  Only  ye  can't  sell  it,  now,  because  it's 
about  an  evil  thing.  But  suppose  ye  knew  more 
than  any  other  man  about  the  law  o'  contracts,  or 
the  science  o'  bridge  building,  or  the  history  o'  na 
tions  or  the  habits  o'  bugs  or  whatever.  Then  ye 
become  the  principal  witness  in  a  different  kind  o' 
case.  Then  it's  proper  to  sell  yer  knowledge  for 
the  good  o'  the  world  and  they'll  be  as  eager  to  get 
it  as  they  are  what  ye  know  about  the  shooting. 


252       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

And  nobody'll  want  to  kill  ye.  Every  man  o*  them'll 
want  to  keep  ye  alive.  But  mind,  ye  must  be  the 
principal  witness/' 

Deacon  Binks  arrived,  a  fat  man  with  a  big 
round  body  and  a  very  wise  and  serious  coun 
tenance  between  side  whiskers  bending  from  his 
temple  to  his  neck  and  suggesting  parentheses  of 
hair,  as  if  his  head  and  its  accessories  were  in  the 
nature  of  a  side  issue.  He  and  the  schoolmaster 
went  out-of-doors  and  must  have  talked  together 
while  I  was  eating  a  bowl  of  bread  and  milk  which 
Mrs.  Racket  had  brought  to  me. 

When  I  went  to  bed,  by  and  by,  I  heard  some 
body  snoring  on  the  little  porch  under  my  window. 
The  first  sound  that  reached  my  ear  at  the  break 
of  dawn  was  the  snoring  of  the  same  sleeper.  I 
dressed  and  went  below  and  found  the  constable  in 
his  coon-skin  overcoat  asleep  on  the  porch  with  a 
long-barreled  gun  at  his  side.  While  I  stood  there 
the  schoolmaster  came  around  the  corner  of  the 
house  from  the  garden.  He  smiled  as  he  saw  the 
deacon. 

"Talk  about  the  placid  rest  of  Egyptian  gods!" 
he  exclaimed.  "Look  at  the  watchful  eye  o'  Jus 
tice.  How  well  she  sleeps  in  this  peaceful  valley! 
Sometimes  ye  can  hardly  wake  her  up  at  all,  at  all." 

He  put  his  hand  on  the  deacon's  shoulder  and 
gave  him  a  little  shake. 


A  PARTY  AND — MY  FOURTH  PERIL?    253 

"Awake,  ye  limb  o'  the  law,"  he  demanded 
"Prayer  is  better  than  sleep." 

The  deacon  arose  and  stretched  himself  and 
cleared  his  throat  and  assumed  an  air  of  alertness 
and  said  it  was  a  fine  morning,  which  it  was  not, 
the  sky  being  overcast  and  the  air  dank  and  chilly. 
He  removed  his  greatcoat  and  threw  it  on  the  stoop 
saying: 

"Deacon,  you  lay  there.  From  now  on  I'm  con 
stable  and  ready  for  any  act  that  may  be  necessary 
to  maintain  the  law.  I  can  be  as  severe  as  Napoleon 
Bonaparte  and  as  cunning  as  Satan,  if  I  have  to  be." 

I  remember  that  through  the  morning's  work  the 
sleepy  deacon  and  the  alert  constable  contended 
over  the  possession  of  his  stout  frame. 

The  constable  shouldered  the  gun  and  followed 
me  into  the  pasture  where  I  went  to  get  the  cow. 
I  saw  now  that  his  intention  was  to  guard  me  from 
further  attacks.  While  I  was  milking,  the  deacon 
sat  on  a  bucket  in  the  doorway  of  the  stable  and 
snored  until  I  had  finished.  He  awoke  when  I 
loosed  the  cow  and  the  constable  went  back  to  the 
pasture  with  me,  yawning  writh  his  hand  over  his 
mouth  much  of  the  way.  The  deacon  leaned  his 
elbow  on  the  top  of  the  pen  and  snored  again, 
lightly,  while  I  mixed  the  feed  for  the  pigs. 

Mr.  Hacket  met  us  at  the  kitchen  door,  where 
Deacon  Binks  said  to  him : 


254»       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

"If  you'll  look  after  the  boy  to-day,  I'll  go  home 
and  get  a  little  rest." 

"God  bless  yer  soul,  ye  had  a  busy  night,"  said 
the  schoolmaster  with  a  smile. 

He  added  as  he  went  into  the  house : 

"I  never  knew  a  man  to  rest  with  more  energy 
and  persistence.  It  was  a  perfect  flood  o'  rest.  It 
kept  me  awake  until  long  after  midnight." 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  MICHAEL  HENRY  AND  OTHERS 

THAT  last  peril  is  one  of  the  half-solved 
mysteries  of  my  life.     The  following  af 
fidavit,    secured   by   an   assistant   of   the 
district  attorney  from  a  young  physician  in  a  vil 
lage  above  Bally  been,  never  a  matter  of  record, 
heightened  its  interest  for  me  and  my  friends. 

"Deponent  saith  that  about  eleven  o'clock  on  the 
evening  of  the  24th  of  September  (that  on  which 
the  attack  upon  me  was  made)  a  man  unknown  to 
him  called  at  his  office  and  alleged  that  a  friend  of 
the  stranger  had  been  injured  and  was  in  need  of 
surgical  aid.  He  further  alleged  that  his  friend 
was  in  trouble  and  being  sought  after  and  that  he, 
the  caller,  dared  not,  therefore,  reveal  the  place 
where  his  friend  had  taken  refuge.  He  offered  the 
deponent  the  sum  of  ten  dollars  to  submit  to  the 
process  of  blindfolding  and  of  being  conducted  to 
said  place  for  the  purpose  of  giving  relief  to  the 
injured  man.  Whereupon  the  deponent  declares 
that  he  submitted  to  said  process  and  was  conducted 
by  wagon  and  trail  to  a  bark  shanty  at  some  place 
in  the  woods  unknown  to  him  where  the  bandage 

255 


256       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

was  removed  from  his  eyes.  He  declares  further 
that  he  found  there,  a  strong  built,  black-bearded 
man  about  thirty  years  of  age,  and  a  stranger  to 
him,  lying  on  a  bed  of  boughs  in  the  light  of  a  fire 
and  none  other.  This  man  was  groaning  in  great 
pain  from  a  wound  made  by  some  heavy  weapon 
on  the  side  of  his  head.  The  flesh  of  the  cheek  and 
ear  were  swollen  and  lacerated.  Deponent  further 
declares  that  he  administered  an  opiate  and  dressed 
and  put  a  number  of  stitches  in  the  injured  parts 
and  bound  them  with  a  bandage  soaked  in  liniment. 
Then  deponent  returned  to  his  home,  blindfolded 
as  he  had  left  it.  He  declares  that  the  time  con 
sumed  in  the  journey  from  the  shanty  to  his  home 
was  one  hour  and  ten  minutes.'* 


It  should  be  said  that,  in  the  theory  of  the  dis 
trict  attorney  the  effort  to  retire  the  principal  wit 
ness,  if,  indeed,  that  were  the  intention  of  their  pur 
suit  of  me,  originated  in  the  minds  of  lawless  and 
irresponsible  men.  I  know  that  there  are  those  who 
find  a  joy  in  creating  mysteries  and  defeating  the 
law,  but  let  it  be  set  down  here  that  I  have  never 
concurred  in  the  views  of  that  able  officer. 

At  the  examination  of  Amos  Grimshaw  my  knowl 
edge  was  committed  to  the  records  and  ceased  to  be 
a.  source  of  danger  to  me.  Grimshaw  came  to  the 
village  that  day.  On  my  way  to  the  court  room  I 
saw  him  walking  slowly,  with  bent  head  as  I  had 
seen  him  before,  followed  by  old  Kate.  She  carried 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  MICHAEL  HENBY    257" 

her  staff  in  her  left  hand  while  the  forefinger  of 
her  right  was  pointing  him  out.  Silent  as  a  ghost 
and  as  unheeded — one  would  say — she  followed  his 
steps. 

I  remember  when  I  went  on  the  stand  my  eyes 
filled  with  tears.  Amos  gave  me  an  appealing  look 
that  went  to  my  heart.  It  was  hard  for  me  to  tell 
the  truth  that  day — never  has  it  been  so  hard.  If 
I  had  had  the  riches  of  Grimshaw  himself  I  would 
have  given  them  to  be  relieved.  Was  there  nothing 
that  I  could  do  for  Amos  ? 

I  observed  that  old  Kate  sat  on  a  front  seat  with 
her  hand  to  her  ear  and  Grimshaw  beside  his  lawyer 
at  a  big  table  and  that  when  she  looked  at  him  her 
lips  moved  in  a  strange  unuttered  whisper  of  her 
spirit.  Her  face  filled  with  joy  as  one  damning 
detail  after  another  came  out  in  the  evidence. 

Aunt  Deel  and  Uncle  Peabody  came  to  the  vil 
lage  that  day  and  sat  in  the  court  room.  They  had 
dinner  with  us  at  the  schoolmaster's,  but  I  had  lit 
tle  chance  to  talk  with  them.  Aunt  Deel  went  up 
to  my  room  with  me  and  slyly  gave  me  some  fresh 
cookies  wrapped  in  a  piece  of  newspaper  which  she 
carried  in  a  little  basket  bought  from  the  Indians. 

"Here's  somethin'  else,"  she  said.  "I  was  keepin' 
'em  for  Chris'mas — ayes! — but  it's  so  cold  I  guess 
ye  better  have  'em  now — ayes!" 

Then  she  gave  me  a  pair  of  mittens  with  a  red 


258       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

fringe  around  the  wristbands,  and  two  pairs  of 
socks. 

I  remember  that  my  uncle  laughed  at  the  jests  of 
Mr.  Hacket  but  said  little  and  was  not,  I  thought,  in 
good  spirits.  They  went  home  before  the  examina 
tion  ended. 

The  facts  hereinbefore  alleged,  and  others,  were 
proven,  for  the  tracks  fitted  the  shoes  of  Amos. 
The  young  man  was  held  and  presently  indicted. 
The  time  of  his  trial  was  not  determined. 

I  received  much  attention  from  young  and  old  in 
the  village  after  that,  for  I  found  soon  that  I  had 
acquired  a  reputation  for  bravery,  of  the  slender 
foundation  for  which  the  reader  is  well  aware.  I 
was  invited  to  many  parties,  but  had  not  much  heart 
for  them  and  went  only  to  one  at  the  home  of  Net 
tie  Barrows.  Sally  was  there.  She  came  to  me  as 
if  nothing  had  interrupted  our  friendship  and  asked 
if  I  would  play  Hunt  the  Squirrel  with  them.  Of 
course  I  was  glad  to  make  this  treaty  of  peace, 
which  was  sealed  with  many  kisses  as  we  played  to 
gether  in  those  lively  games  of  the  old  time.  I  re 
member  that  I  could  think  of  nothing  in  this  world 
with  which  to  compare  her  beauty.  I  asked  if  I 
could  walk  home  with  her  and  she  said  that  she 
was  engaged,  and  while  she  was  as  amiable  as  ever 
I  came  to  know  that  night  that  a  kind  of  wall  had 
risen  between  us. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  MICHAEL  HENRY    259 

I  wrote  a  good  hand  those  days  and  the  leading 
merchant  of  the  village  engaged  me  to  post  his  books 
every  Saturday  at  ten  cents  .an  hour.  Thence 
forward  until  Christmas  I  gave  my  free  days  to  that 
task.  I  estimated  the  sum  that  I  should  earn  and 
planned  to  divide  it  in  equal  parts  and  proudly  pre 
sent  it  to  my  aunt  and  uncle  on  Christmas  day. 

One  Saturday  while  I  was  at  work  on  the  big 
ledger  of  the  merchant  I  ran  upon  this  item: 

October  3.  S.  Wright — To  one  suit  of 
clothes  for  Michael  Henry 
from  measures  furnished  by 

S.  Robinson $14.30 

Shirts  to  match 1.70 

I  knew  then  the  history  of  the  suit  of  clothes 
which  I  had  worn  since  that  rainy  October  night, 
for  I  remembered  that  Sam  Robinson,  the  tailor,  had 
measured  me  at  our  house  and  made  up  the  doth 
of  Aunt  Deel's  weaving. 

I  observed,  also,  that  numerous  articles — a  load  of 
wood,  two  sacks  of  flour,  three  pairs  of  boots,  one 
coat,  ten  pounds  of  salt  pork  and  four  bushels  of 
potatoes — all  for  "Michael  Henry"  had  been  charged 
to  Silas  Wright. 

So  by  the  merest  chance  I  learned  that  the  in 
visible  "Michael  Henry"  was  the  almoner  of  the 
modest  statesman  and  really  the  spirit  of  Silas 


260      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

Wright  feeding  the  hungry  and  clothing  the  naked 
and  warming  the  cold  house,  in  the  absence  of  its 
owner.  It  was  the  heart  of  Wright  joined  to  that 
of  the  schoolmaster,  which  sat  in  the  green  chair. 

I  fear  that  my  work  suffered  a  moment's  inter 
ruption,  for  just  then  I  began  to  know  the  great 
heart  of  the  Senator.  Its  warmth  was  in  the  clothing 
that  covered  my  back,  its  delicacy  in  the  ignorance 
of  those  who  had  shared  its  benefactions. 

I  count  this  one  of  the  great  events  of  my  youth. 
But  there  was  a  greater  one,  although  it  seemed  not 
so  at  the  time  of  it.  A  traveler  on  the  road  to  Bally- 
been  had  dropped  his  pocketbook  containing  a  large 
amount  of  money — two  thousand  seven  hundred  dol 
lars  was  the  sum,  if  I  remember  rightly.  He  was  a 
man  who,  being  justly  suspicious  of  the  banks,  had 
withdrawn  his  money.  Posters  announced  the  loss 
and  the  offer  of  a  large  reward.  The  village  was 
profoundly  stirred  by  them.  Searching  parties  went 
up  the  road  stirring  its  dust  and  groping  in  its  grass 
and  briers  for  the  great  prize  which  was  supposed 
to  be  lying  there.  It  was  said,  however,  that  the 
quest  had  been  unsuccessful.  So  the  lost  pocketbook 
became  a  treasured  mystery  of  the  village  and  of  all 
the  hills  and  valleys  toward  Ballybeen — a  topic  of 
old  wives  and  gabbing  husbands  at  the  fireside  for 
unnumbered  years. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  MICHAEL  HENRY    261 

By  and  by  the  fall  term  of  school  ended.  Uncle 
Peabody  came  down  to  get  me  the  day  before  Christ 
mas.  I  had  enjoyed  my  work  and  my  life  at  the 
Hackets',  on  the  whole,  but  I  was  glad  to  be  going 
home  again.  My  uncle  was  in  high  spirits  and  there 
were  many  packages  in  the  sleigh. 

"A  merry  Christmas  to  ye  both  an'  may  the  Lord 
love  ye!"  said  Mr.  Racket  as  he  bade  us  good-by. 
"Every  day  our  thoughts  will  be  going  up  the  hills 
to  your  house." 

As  he  was  tucking  the  blankets  around  my  feet 
old  Nick  Tubbs  came  zigzagging  up  the  road  from 
the  tavern. 

"What  stimulation  travels  with  that  man!"  said 
the  schoolmaster.  "He  might  be  worse,  God  knows. 
Reeling  minds  are  worse  than  reeling  bodies.  Some 
men  are  born  drunk  like  our  friend  Colonel  Hand 
and  that  kind  is  beyond  reformation." 

The  bells  rang  merrily  as  we  hurried  through  the 
swamp  in  the  hard  snow  paths. 

"We're  goin'  to  move,"  said  my  uncle  presently. 
"We've  agreed  to  get  out  by  the  middle  o'  May." 

"How  does  that  happen?"  I  asked. 

"I  settled  with  Grimshaw  and  agreed  to  go.  If 
it  hadn't  'aj  been  for  Wright  and  Baldwin  we 
wouldn't  'a'  got  a  cent.  They  threatened  to  bid 
against  him  at  the  sale.  So  he  settled.  We're  goin' 
to  have  a  new  home.  We've  bought  a  hundred  an' 


262      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

fifty  acres  from  Abe  Leonard.  Coin*  to  build  a  new 
house  in  the  spring.  It  will  be  nearer  the  village." 

He  playfully  nudged  my  ribs  with  his  elbow. 

"We've  had  a  little  good  luck,  Bart,"  he  went  on. 
"I'll  tell  ye  what  it  is  if  you  won't  say  anything 
about  it." 

I  promised. 

"I  dunno  as  it  would  matter  much,"  he  continued, 
"but  I  don't  want  to  do  any  braggin'.  It  ain't  any 
body's  business  but  ours,  anyway.  An  old  uncle 
over  in  Vermont  died  three  weeks  ago  and  left  us 
thirty-eight  hundred  dollars.  It  was  old  Uncle  Ezra 
Baynes  o'  Hinesburg.  Died  without  a  chick  or  child. 
Your  aunt  and  me  slipped  down  to  Potsdam  an'  took 
the  stage  an'  went  over  an*  got  the  money.  It  was 
more  money  than  I  ever  see  before  in  my  life.  We 
put  it  in  the  bank  in  Potsdam  to  keep  it  out  o'  Grim- 
shaw's  hands.  I  wouldn't  trust  that  man  as  fur  as 
you  could  throw  a  bull  by  the  tail." 

It  was  a  cold  clear  night  and  when  we  reached 
home  the  new  stove  was  snapping  with  the  heat  in 
its  fire-box  and  the  pudding  puffing  in  the  pot  and 
old  Shep  dreaming  in  the  chimney  corner.  Aunt 
Deel  gave  me  a  hug  at  the  door.  Shep  barked  and 
leaped  to  my  shoulders. 

"Why,  Bart!  You're  growin'  like  a  weed — ain't 
ye? — ayes  ye  be,"  my  aunt  said  as  she  stood  and 


THE  SPIEIT  OF  MICHAEL  HEXEY    263 

looked  at  me.  "Set  right  down  here  an'  warm  ye 
— ayes ! — I've  done  all  the  chores — ayes !" 

How  warm  and  comfortable  was  the  dear  old 
room  with  those  beloved  faces  in  it.  I  wonder  if 
paradise  itself  can  seem  more  pleasant  to  me.  I  have 
had  the  best  food  this  world  can  provide  in  my  time, 
but  never  anything  that  I  ate  with  a  keener  relish 
than  the  pudding  and  milk  and  bread  and  butter  and 
cheese  and  pumpkin  pie  which  Aunt  Deel  gave  us 
that  night. 

Supper  over,  I  wiped  the  dishes  for  my  aunt  while 
Uncle  Peabody  went  out  to  feed  and  water  the 
horses.  Then  we  sat  down  in  the  genial  warmth 
while  I  told  the  story  of  my  life  in  "the  busy  town," 
as  they  called  it.  What  pride  and  attention  they 
gave  me  then ! 

Three  days  before  they  had  heard  of  my  adven 
ture  with  the  flail,  as  to  which  Mr.  Hacket,  the  dis 
trict  attorney  and  myself  had  maintained  the  strict 
est  reticence.  It  seemed  that  the  deacon  had  blabbed, 
as  they  used  to  say,  regarding  his  own  brave  part  in 
the  subsequent  proceedings. 

My  fine  clothes  and  the  story  of  how  I  had  come 
by  them  taxed  my  ingenuity  somewhat,  although  not 
improperly.  I  had  to  be  careful  not  to  let  them  know 
that  I  had  been  ashamed  of  the  home-made  suit. 
They,  somehow,  felt  the  truth  about  it  and  a  little 


264»      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

silence  followed  the  story.  Then  Aunt  Deel  drew 
her  chair  near  me  and  touched  my  hair  very  gently 
and  looked  into  my  face  without  speaking. 

"Ayes !  I  know,"  she  said  presently,  in  a  kind  of 
caressing  tone,  with  a  touch  of  sadness  in  it.  "They 
ain't  used  to  coarse  homespun  stuff  down  there  in  the 
village.  They  made  fun  o'  ye — didn't  they,  Bart?" 

"I  don't  care  about  that,"  I  assured  them.  "  The 
mind's  the  measure  of  the  man/  "  I  quoted,  remem 
bering  the  lines  the  Senator  had  repeated  to  me. 

"That's  sound!"  Uncle  Peabody  exclaimed  with 
enthusiasm. 

Aunt  Deel  took  my  hand  in  hers  and  surveyed  it 
thoughtfully  for  a  moment  without  speaking. 

"You  ain't  goin'  to  have  to  suffer  that  way  no 
more,"  she  said  in  a  low  tone. 

I  rose  and  went  to  the  parlor  door. 

"Ye  mustn't  go  in  there,"  she  warned  me. 

Delightful  suspicions  came  out  of  the  warning 
and  their  smiles. 

"We're  goin'  to  be  more  comf'table — ayes,"  said 
Aunt  Deel  as  I  resumed  my  chair.  "Yer  uncle 
thought  we  better  go  west,  but  I  couldn't  bear  to 
go  off  so  fur  an'  leave  mother  an'  father  an'  sister 
Susan  an*  all  the  folks  we  loved  layin'  here  in  the 
ground  alone — I  want  to  lay  down  with  'em  by  an' 
by  an'  wait  for  the  sound  o'  the  trumpet — ayes! — • 
mebbe  it'll  be  for  thousands  o'  years — ayes !" 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  MICHAEL  HENRY    265 

"You  don't  suppose  their  souls  are  a-sleepin'  there 
• — do  ye  ?"  my  uncle  asked. 

'That's  what  the  Bible  says/'  Aunt  Deel  an 
swered. 

"Wai  the  Bible—?"  Uncle  Peabody  stopped. 
What  was  in  his  mind  we  may  only  imagine. 

To  our  astonishment  the  clock  struck  twelve. 

"Hurrah !  It's  merry  Christmas !"  said  Uncle  Pea- 
body  as  he  jumped  to  his  feet  and  began  to  sing  of 
the  little  Lord  Jesus. 

We  joined  him  while  he  stood  beating  time  with 
his  right  hand  after  the  fashion  of  a  singing  master. 

"Off  with  yer  boots,  friend !"  he  exclaimed  when 
the  stanza  was  finished.  "We  don't  have  to  set  up 
and  watch  like  the  shepherds." 

We  drew  our  boots  on  the  chair  round  with  hands 
clasped  over  the  knee — how  familiar  is  the  process, 
and  yet  I  haven't  seen  it  in  more  than  half  a  century ! 
I  lighted  a  candle  and  scampered  up-stairs  in  my 
stocking  feet,  Uncle  Peabody  following  close  and 
slapping  my  thigh  as  if  my  pace  were  not  fast  enough 
for  him.  In  the  midst  of  our  skylarking  the  candle 
tumbled  to  the  floor  and  I  had  to  go  back  to  the  stove 
and  relight  it. 

How  good  it  seemed  to  be  back  in  the  old  room 
under  the  shingles !  The  heat  of  the  stove-pipe  had 
warmed  its  hospitality. 

"It's  been  kind  o'  lonesome  here,"  said  Uncle 


266       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

Peabody  as  he  opened  the  window.     "I  always  let 
the  wind  come  in  to  keep  me  company — it  gits  so 


warm." 


I  lay  down  between  flannel  sheets  on  the  old 
feather  bed.  What  a  stage  of  dreams  and  slumbers 
it  had  been,  for  it  was  now  serving  the  third  gener 
ation  of  Bayneses !  The  old  popple  tree  had  thrown 
off  its  tinkling  cymbals  and  now  the  winter  wind 
hissed  and  whistled  in  its  stark  branches.  Then  the 
deep,  sweet  sleep  of  youth  from  which  it  is  a  joy  and 
a  regret  to  come  back  to  the  world  again.  I  wish 
that  I  could  know  it  once  more. 

"Ye  can't  look  at  yer  stockin*  yit,"  said  Aunt  Deel 
when  I  came  down-stairs  about  eight  o'clock,  having 
slept  through  chore  time.  I  remember  it  was  the 
delicious  aroma  of  frying  ham  and  buckwheat  cakes 
which  awoke  me,  and  who  wouldn't  rise  and  shake 
off  the  cloak  of  slumber  on  a  bright,  cold  winter 
morning  with  such  provocation? 

'This  ain't  no  common  Chris'mas — I  tell  ye/* 
Aunt  Deel  went  on.  "Santa  Claus  won't  git  here 
short  o'  noon  I  wouldn't  wonder — ayes !" 

"By  thunder!"  exclaimed  Uncle  Peabody  as  he 
sat  down  at  the  table.  "This  is  goin'  to  be  a  day  o* 
pure  fun — genuwine  an'  uncommon.  Take  some 
griddlers,"  he  added  as  three  or  four  of  them  fell 
on  my  plate.  "Put  on  plenty  o'  ham  gravy  an'  mo 
lasses.  This  ain't  no  Jackman  tavern.  I  got  hold1 


THE  SPIKIT  OF  MICHAEL  HENRY    267 

o'  somethin'  down  there  that  tasted  so  I  had  to 
s waller  twice  on  it." 

About  eleven  o'clock  Uncle  Hiram  and  Aunt  Eliza 
and  their  five  children  arrived  with  loud  and  merry 
greetings.  Then  came  other  aunts  and  uncles  and 
cousins.  With  what  noisy  good  cheer  the  men  en 
tered  the  house  after  they  had  put  up  their  horses ! 
I  remember  how  they  laid  their  hard,  heavy  hands 
on  my  head  and  shook  it  a  little  as  they  spoke  of 
my  "stretchin'  up"  or  gave  me  a  playful  slap  on  the 
shoulder — an  ancient  token  of  good  will — the  first 
form  of  the  accolade,  I  fancy.  What  joyful  good 
humor  there  was  in  those  simple  men  and  women ! — 
enough  to  temper  the  woes  of  a  city  if  it  could  have 
been  applied  to  their  relief.  They  stood  thick  around 
the  stove  warming  themselves  and  taking  off  its 
griddles  and  opening  its  doors  and  surveying  it  in 
side  and  out  with  much  curiosity. 

Suddenly  Uncle  Hiram  tried  to  put  Uncle  Jabez 
in  the  wood-box  while  the  others  laughed  noisily. 
I  remember  that  my  aunts  rallied  me  on  my  supposed 
liking  for  "that  Dunkelberg  girl." 

"Now  for  the  Chris'mas  tree,"  said  Uncle  Pea- 
body  as  he  led  the  way  into  our  best  room,  where 
a  fire  was  burning  in  the  old  Franklin  grate.  "Come 
on,  boys  an*  girls." 

What  a  wonderful  sight  was  the  Christmas  tree — 
the  first  we  had  had  in  our  house — a  fine  spreading 


268      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

balsam  loaded  with  presents !  Uncle  Hiram  jumped 
into  the  air  and  clapped  his  feet  together  and 
shouted :  "Hold  me,  somebody,  or  I'll  grab  the  hull 
tree  an*  run  away  with  it." 

Uncle  Jabez  held  one  foot  in  both  hands  before 
him  and  joyfully  hopped  around  the  tree. 

These  relatives  had  brought  their  family  gifts, 
some  days  before,  to  be  hung  on  its  branches.  The 
thing  that  caught  my  eye  was  a  big  silver  watch 
hanging  by  a  long  golden  chain  to  one  of  the  boughs. 
Uncle  Peabody  took  it  down  and  held  it  aloft  by  the 
chain,  so  that  none  should  miss  the  sight,  saying : 

"From  Santa  Claus  for  Bart !" 

A  murmur  of  admiration  ran  through  the  com 
pany  which  gathered  around  me  as  I  held  the  treas 
ure  in  my  trembling  hands. 

"This  is  for  Bart,  too,"  Uncle  Peabody  shouted 
as  he  took  down  a  bolt  of  soft  blue  cloth  and  laid  it 
in  my  arms.  "Now  there's  somethin'  that's  jest 
about  as  slick  as  a  kitten's  ear.  Feel  of  it.  It's  for  a 
suit  o'  clothes.  Come  all  the  way  from  Burlington." 

"Good  land  o'  Goshen !  Don't  be  in  such  a  hurry," 
said  Aunt  Deel. 

"Sorry,  but  the  stage  can't  wait  for  nobody  at  all 
— it's  due  to  leave  right  off,"  Uncle  Peabody  re 
marked  as  he  laid  a  stuffed  stocking  on  top  of  the 
cloth  and  gave  me  a  playful  slap  and  shouted :  "Get- 
ap,  there.  You've  got  yer  load." 


THE  SPIRIT  or  MICHAEL  HENRY     269 

I  moved  out  of  the  way  in  a  hurricane  of  merri 
ment.  It  was  his  one  great  day  of  pride  and  vanity. 
He  did  not  try  to  conceal  them. 

The  other  presents  floated  for  a  moment  in  this 
irresistible  tide  of  laughing  good  will  and  found 
their  owners.  I  have  never  forgotten  how  Uncle 
Jabez  chased  Aunt  Minerva  around  the  house  with  a 
wooden  snake  cunningly  carved  and  colored.  I 
observed  there  were  many  things  on  the  tree  which 
had  not  been  taken  down  when  we  younger  ones 
gathered  up  our  wealth  and  repaired  to  Aunt  Deel's 
room  to  feast  our  eyes  upon  it  and  compare  our 
good  fortune. 

The  women  and  the  big  girls  rolled  up  their 
sleeves  and  went  to  work  with  Aunt  Deel  preparing 
the  dinner.  The  great  turkey  and  the  chicken  pie 
were  made  ready  and  put  in  the  oven  and  the  po 
tatoes  and  the  onions  and  the  winter  squash  were 
soon  boiling  in  their  pots  on  the  stove-top.  Mean 
while  the  children  were  playing  in  my  aunt's  bed 
room  and  Uncle  Hiram  and  Uncle  Jabez  were  pull 
ing  sticks  in  a  corner  while  the  other  men  sat  tipped 
against  the  wall  watching  and  making  playful  com 
ments — all  save  my  Uncle  Peabody,  who  was  trying 
to  touch  his  head  to  the  floor  and  then  straighten  up 
with  the  aid  of  the  broomstick. 

By  and  by  I  sat  on  top  of  the  wood  with  which  I 
had  just  filled  the  big  wood-box  and  very  conscious 


270       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

of  the  shining  chain  on  my  breast.  Suddenly  the 
giant,  Rodney  Barnes,  jumped  out  of  his  chair  and, 
embracing  the  wood-box,  lifted  it  and  the  wood  and 
me  in  his  great  arms  and  danced  lightly  around  a 
group  of  the  ladies  with  his  burden  and  set  it  down 
in  its  place  again  very  gently.  What  a  hero  he  be 
came  in  my  eyes  after  that ! 

"If  ye  should  go  off  some  day  an'  come  back  an' 
find  yer  house  missin'  ye  may  know  that  Rodney 
Barnes  has  been  here,"  said  Uncle  Hiram.  "A  man 
as  stout  as  Rodney  is  about  as  dangerous  as  a  fire." 

Then  what  Falstaffian  peals  of  laughter! 

In  the  midst  of  it  Aunt  Deel  opened  the  front  door 
and  old  Kate,  the  Silent  Woman,  entered.  To  my 
surprise,  she  wore  a  decent-looking  dress  of  gray 
homespun  cloth  and  a  white  cloud  looped  over  her 
head  and  ears  and  tied  around  her  neck  and  a  good 
pair  of  boots. 

"Merry  Chris'mas!"  we  all  shouted. 

She  smiled  and  nodded  her  head  and  sat  down  in 
the  chair  which  Uncle  Peabody  had  placed  for  her  at 
the  stove  side.  Aunt  Deel  took  the  cloud  off  her 
head  while  Kate  drew  her  mittens — newly  knitted 
of  the  best  yarn.  Then  my  aunt  brought  some  stock 
ings  and  a  shawl  from  the  tree  and  laid  them  on  the 
lap  of  old  Kate.  What  a  silence  fell  upon  us  as  we 
saw  tears  coursing  down  the  cheeks  of  this  lonely 
old  woman  of  the  countryside ! — tears  of  joy,  doubt- 


THE  SPIRIT  or  MICHAEL  HENRY    271 

less,  for  God  knows  how  long  it  had  been  since  the 
poor,  abandoned  soul  had  seen  a  merry  Christmas 
and  shared  its  kindness.  I  did  not  fail  to  observe 
how  clean  her  face  and  hands  looked!  She  was 
greatly  changed. 

She  took  my  hand  as  I  went  to  her  side  and  ten 
derly  caressed  it.  A  gentler  smile  came  to  her  face 
than  ever  I  had  seen  upon  it.  The  old  stern  look 
returned  for  a  moment  as  she  held  one  finger  aloft 
in  a  gesture  which  only  I  and  my  Aunt  Deel  under 
stood.  We  knew  it  signalized  a  peril  and  a  mystery. 
That  I  should  have  to  meet  it,  somewhere  up  the 
hidden  pathway,  I  had  no  doubt  whatever. 

"Dinners  ready !"  exclaimed  the  cheerful  voice  of 
Aunt  Deel. 

Then  what  a  stirring  of  chairs  and  feet  as  we  sat 
down  at  the  table.  Old  Kate  sat  by  the  side  of  my 
aunt  and  we  were  all  surprised  at  her  good  manners. 

Uncle  Jabez — a  member  of  the  white  church — 
prayed  for  a  moment  as  we  sat  with  bowed  heads. 
I  have  never  forgotten  his  simple  eloquence  as  he 
prayed  for  the  poor  and  for  him  who  was  sitting  in 
the  shadow  of  death  (I  knew  that  he  referred  to 
Amos  Grimshaw  and  whispered  amen)  and  for  our 
forgiveness. 

We  jested  and  laughed  and  drank  cider  and  re 
viewed  the  year's  history  and  ate  as  only  they  may 
eat  who  Have  big  bones  and  muscles  and  the  vitality 


272       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

of  oxen.  I  never  taste  the  flavor  of  sage  and  cur 
rant  jelly  or  hear  a  hearty  laugh  without  thinking  of 
those  holiday  dinners  in  the  old  log  house  on  Rattle- 
road. 

Some  of  the  men  and  two  of  the  women  rilled 
their  pipes  and  smoked  while  the  dishes  were  being 
picked  up  and  washed.  By  and  by  the  men  and  the 
big  boys  went  with  us  down  to  the  brook  where  we 
chopped  holes  in  the  ice  to  give  the  sheep  and  the 
cattle  a  chance  to  drink.  Then  they  looked  at  the 
horses. 

"Peabody  you  mus'  be  gittin'  rich,"  said  Hiram 
Bentley. 

"No  I  ain't.  I've  had  to  give  up  here,  but  a  little 
windfall  come  to  us  t'other  day  from  an  old  uncle  in 
Vermont.  It  ain't  nothin'  to  brag  of,  but  it'll  give  us 
a  start  an'  we  thought  that  while  we  had  the  money 
we'd  do  somethin'  that  we've  been  wantin'  to  do  for 
years  an'  years — give  a  Chris'mas — an'  we've  done 
it.  The  money'll  go  some  way  an'  we  may  never 
have  another  chance.  Bart  is  a  good  boy  an'  we 
made  up  our  minds  he'd  enjoy  it  better  now  than  he 
ever  would  ag'in." 

That  Christmas  brought  me  nothing  better  than 
those  words,  the  memory  of  which  is  one  of  the  tall 
est  towers  in  that  long  avenue  of  my  past  down 
which  I  have  been  looking  these  many  days.  About 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  MICHAEL  HENRY    273 

all  you  can  do  for  a  boy,  worth  while,  is  to  give  him 
something  good  to  remember. 

The  day  had  turned  dark.  The  temperature  had 
risen  and  the  air  was  dank  and  chilly.  The  men 
began  to  hitch  up  their  horses. 

"Kind  o'  thawin'  a  little,"  said  Uncle  Hiram  as  he 
got  into  his  sleigh  and  drove  up  to  the  door.  "Come 
on,  there.  Stop  yer  cacklin'  an'  git  into  this  sleigh," 
he  shouted  in  great  good  humor  to  the  women  and 
children  who  stood  on  the  porch.  "It'll  be  snowin' 
like  sixty  'fore  we  git  home." 

So,  one  by  one,  the  sleighloads  left  us  with  cheery 
good-bys  and  a  grinding  of  runners  and  a  jingling 
of  bells.  When  the  last  had  gone  Uncle  Peabody 
and  I  went  into  the  house.  Aunt  Deel  sat  by  the 
stove,  old  Kate  by  the  window  looking  out  at  the 
falling  dusk.  How  still  the  house  seemed ! 

"There's  one  thing  I  forgot,"  I  said  as  I  proudly 
took  out  of  my  wallet  the  six  one-dollar  bills  which 
I  had  earned  by  working  Saturdays  and  handed 
three  of  them  to  my  aunt  and  three  to  my  uncle, 
saying : 

"That  is  my  Christmas  present  to  you.  I  earned 
it  myself." 

I  remember  so  well  their  astonishment  and  the 
trembling  of  their  hands  and  the  look  of  their  faces. 

"It's  grand — ayes !"  Aunt  Deel  said  in  a  low  tone. 


274       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

She  rose  in  a  moment  and  beckoned  to  me  and 
my  uncle.  We  followed  her*  through  the  open  door 
to  the  other  room. 

"I'll  tell  ye  what  I'd  do,"  she  whispered.  "I'd 
give  'em  to  ol'  Kate — ayes !  She's  goin'  to  stay  with 
us  till  to-morrow." 

"Good  idee !"  said  Uncle  Peabody. 

So  I  took  the  money  out  of  their  hands  and  went 
in  and  gave  it  to  the  Silent  Woman. 

"That's  your  present  from  me,"  I  said. 

How  can  I  forget  how  she  held  my  arm  against 
her  with  that  loving,  familiar,  rocking  motion  of  a 
woman  who  is  soothing  a  baby  at  her  breast  and 
kissed  my  coat  sleeve?  She  released  my  arm  and, 
turning  to  the  window,  leaned  her  head  upon  its  sill 
and  shook  with  sobs.  The  dusk  had  thickened.  As 
I  returned  to  my  seat  by  the  stove  I  could  dimly  see 
her  form  against  the  light  of  the  window.  We  sat 
in  silence  for  a  little  while. 

Aunt  Deel  broke  it  by  singing  in  a  low  tone  as  she 
rocked : 

"My  days  are  passing  swiftly  by 
And  I — a  pilgrim  stranger — 

Would  not  detain  them  as  they  fly, 
These  days  of  toil  and  danger." 

Uncle  Peabody  rose  and  got  a  candle  and  lighted 
it  at  the  hearth. 


THE  SPIRIT  or  MICHAEL  HENRY    275 

"Wai,  Bart,  we'll  do  the  chores,  an'  then  I  warn 
ye  that  we're  goin'  to  have  some  fun,"  he  said  as  he 
got  his  lantern.  "There's  goin'  to  be  some  OF  Sledge 
played  here  this  evenin'  an'  I  wouldn't  wonder  if 
Kate  could  beat  us  all." 

I  held  the  lantern  while  Uncle  Peabody  fed  the 
sheep  and  the  two  cows  and  milked — a  slight  chore 
these  winter  days. 

"There's  nothing  so  cold  on  earth  as  a  fork  stale 
on  a  winter  night,"  he  remarked  as  he  was  pitching 
the  hay.  "Wish  I'd  brought  my  mittens." 

"You  and  I  are  to  go  off  to  bed  purty  early,"  he 
said  as  we  were  going  back  to  the  house.  "Yer  Aunt 
Deel  wants  to  see  Kate  alone  and  git  her  to  talk  if 
she  can/' 

Kate  played  with  us,  smiling  now  and  then  at  my 
uncle's  merry  ways  and  words,  but  never,  speaking. 
It  was  poor  fun,  for  the  cards  seemed  to  take  her 
away  from  us  into  other  scenes  so  that  she  had  to  be 
reminded  of  her  turn  to  play. 

"I  dunno  but  she'll  swing  back  into  this  world 
ag'in,"  said  Uncle  Peabody  when  we  had  gone  up 
to  our  little  room.  "I  guess  all  she  needs  is  to  be 
treated  like  a  human  bein'.  Yer  Aunt  Deel  an'  I 
couldn't  git  over  thinkin'  o'  what  she  done  for  you 
that  night  in  the  ol'  barn.  So  I  took  some  o'  yer 
aunt's  good  clothes  to  her  an'  a  pair  o'  boots  an' 
asked  her  to  come  to  Chris'mas.  She  lives  in  a  little 


276      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

room  over  the  blacksmith  shop  down  to  Butterfield's 
mill.  I  told  her  I'd  come  after  her  with  the  cutter 
but  she  shook  her  head.  I  knew  she'd  rather  walk." 
He  was  yawning  as  he  spoke  and  soon  we  were 
both'  asleep  under  the  shingles. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

THE  THING  AND  OTHER  THINGS 

I  RETURNED  to  Mr.  Racket's  house  late  in  the 
afternoon  of  New  Year's  day.  The  school 
master  was  lying  on  a  big  lounge  in  a  corner  of 
their  front  room  with  the  children  about  him.  The 
dusk  was  falling. 

"Welcome,  my  laddie  buck!"  he  exclaimed  as  I 
entered.  "We're  telling  stories  o'  the  old  year  an' 
you're  just  in  time  for  the  last  o'  them.  Sit  down, 
lad,  and  God  give  ye  patience !  It'll  soon  be  over." 

Little  John  led  me  into  the  group  and  the  school 
master  began : — Let  us  call  this  bit  of  a  story :  The 
Guide  to  Paradise. 

"One  day  in  early  June  I  was  lyin'  under  the  big 
apple  tree  in  the  garden — sure  I  was.  It  was  all 
white  and  sweet  with  the  blossoms  like  a  bride  in  her 
veil — an'  I  heard  the  hum  o'  the  bee's  wing  an'  odors 
o'  the  upper  world  come  down  to  me.  I  was  lookin' 
at  the  little  bird  house  that  we  had  hung  in  the  tree- 
top.  Of  a  sudden  I  saw  a  tiny  bit  o'  a  'warf — no 
longer  than  the  thumb  o'  Mary — God  love  her ! — on 
its  wee  porch  an'  lookin'  down  at  me. 

277 


278       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

''  'Good  luck  to  ye!'  says  I.    'Who  are  you?' 

"  'Who  do  ye  think  I  am?'  says  he. 

"  'Nobody,'  says  I. 

"  'That's  just  who  I  am/  says  he,  'I'm  Nobody 
from  Nowhere — God  save  you  from  the  like.' 

"  'Glad  to  see  ye,'  says  I. 

"  'Glad  to  be  seen,'  says  he.  'There's  a  mighty 
few  people  can  see  me.' 

"  'Looks  to  me  as  if  ye  were  tellin'  the  truth,' 
says  I. 

'  'Nobody  is  the  only  one  that  always  tells  the 
truth — God  help  ye,'  says  he.  'And  here's  a  big 
chunk  o'  it.  Not  one  in  a  thousand  ever  gets  the  feet 
o'  his  mind  in  the  land  o'  Nowhere — better  luck  to 
them !' 

"'Where  is  it?'  says  I. 

'  'Up  above  the  earth  where  the  great  God  keeps 
His  fiddle,'  says  he. 

'"What  fiddle?'  says! 

'"The  fiddle  o'  silence,'  says  he.  'Sure,  I'm 
playin'  it  now.  It  has  long  strings  o'  gold  that  reach 
'way  out  across  the  land  o'  Nowhere — ye  call  'em 
stars.  The  winds  and  the  birds  play  on  it.  Sure,  the 
birds  are  my  hens/ 

"He  clapped  his  little  hands  and  down  came  a 
robin  and  sat  beside  him.  Nobody  rumpled  up  the 
feathers  on  her  back  and  she  queed  like  she  was  goin' 
to  peck  me — the  hussy ! 


THE  THING  ANB  OTHER  THINGS    279 

"  'She's  my  watch  hen/  says  Nobody.  'Guards 
the  house  and  lays  eggs  for  me — the  darlin' !  Sure, 
I've  a  wonderful  farm  up  here  in  the  air — millions 
o'  acres,  and  the  flowers  and  the  tops  o'  the  trees  and 
the  gold  mines  o'  the  sky  are  in  it.  The  flowers  are 
my  cattle  and  the  bees  are  my  hired  men.  Do  ye  see 
'em  milkin'  this  big  herd  o'  apple-blossoms  ?  My  hired 
men  carry  their  milk  away  to  the  hollow  trees  and 
churn  it  into  honey.  There's  towers  and  towers  of 
it  in  the  land  o'  Nowhere.  If  it  wasn't  for  Nowhere 
your  country  would  be  as  dark  as  a  pocket  and  as  dry 
as  dust — sure  it  would.  Somewhere  must  be  next  to 
Nowhere — or  it  wouldn't  be  anywhere,  I'm  thinkin'. 
All  the  light  and  rain  and  beauty  o'  the  world  come 
out  o'  Nowhere — don't  they?  We  have  the  widest 
ocean  up  here  with  wonderful  ships.  I  call  it  God's 
ferry.  Ye  see,  Nowhere  is  not  to  be  looked  down 
upon  just  because  ye  don't  find  it  in  Mary's  geog 
raphy.  There's  lots  o'  things  ye  don't  know,  man. 
I'm  one  o'  them.  What  do  ye  think  o'  me?' 

"  'Sure,  I  like  ye,'  says  I. 

"  'Lucky  man !'  says  he.  'Everybody  must  learn 
to  like  me  an'  play  with  me  as  the  children  do.  I 
can  get  along  with  the  little  folks,  but  it's  hard  to 
teach  men  how  to  play  with  me — God  pity  them! 
They  forget  how  to  believe.  I  am  the  guide  to  para 
dise  and  unless  ye  become  as  a  little  child  I  can  not 
lead  ye/ 


280       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

"He  ran  to  the  edge  o'  the  tree  roof  and  took 
hold  o'  the  end  of  a  long  spider's  rope  hangin'  down 
in  the  air.  In  a  jiffy  he  swung  clear  o'  the  tree  and 
climbed,  hand  over  hand,  until  he  had  gone 
awa-a-a-a-y  out  o'  sight  in  the  sky." 

"Couldn't  anybody  do  that?"  said  little  John. 

"I  didn't  say  they  could — did  I?  ye  unbeliever!" 
said  the  schoolmaster  as  he  rose  and  led  us  in  to  the 
supper  table.  "I  said  Nobody  did  it." 

We  got  him  to  tell  this  little  tale  over  and  over 
again  in  the  days  that  followed,  and  many  times 
since  then  that  impersonal  and  mysterious  guide  of 
the  schoolmaster's  fancy  has  led  me  to  paradise. 

After  supper  he  got  out  his  boxing-gloves  and 
gave  me  a  lesson  in  the  art  of  self-defense,  in  which, 
I  was  soon  to  learn,  he  was  highly  accomplished, 
for  we  had  a  few  rounds  together  every  day  after 
that.  He  keenly  enjoyed  this  form  of  exercise  and  I 
soon  began  to.  My  capacity  for  taking  punishment 
without  flinching  grew  apace  and  before  long  I  got 
the  knack  of  countering  and  that  pleased  him  more 
even  than  my  work  in  school,  I  have  sometimes 
thought. 

"God  bless  ye,  boy !"  he  exclaimed  one  day  after 
I  had  landed  heavily  on  his  cheek,  "ye've  a  nice  way 
o'  sneakin'  in  with  yer  right.  I've  a  notion  ye  may 
find  it  useful  some  day." 


THE  THING  AND  OTHER  THINGS    281 

I  wondered  a  little  why  he  should  say  that,  and 
while  I  was  wondering  he  felled  me  with  a  stinging 
blow  on  my  nose. 

"Ah,  my  lad — there's  the  best  thing  I  have  seen 
ye  do — get  up  an'  come  back  with  no  mad  in  ye,"  he 
said  as  he  gave  me  his  hand. 

One  day  the  schoolmaster  called  the  older  boys  to 
the  front  seats  in  his  room  and  I  among  them. 

"Now,  boys,  I'm  going  to  ask  ye  what  ye  want  to 
do  in  the  world,"  he  said.  "Don't  be  afraid  to  tell 
me  what  ye  may  never  have  told  before  and  I'll  do 
what  I  can  to  help  ye." 

He  asked  each  one  to  make  confession  and  a  most 
remarkable  exhibit  of  young  ambition  was  the  re 
sult.  I  remember  that  most  of  us  wanted  to  be 
statesmen — a  fact  due  probably  to  the  shining  ex 
ample  of  Silas  Wright.  Then  he  said  that  on  a  cer 
tain  evening  he  would  try  "to  show  us  the  way  over 
the  mountains." 

For  some  months  I  had  been  studying  a  book  just 
published,  entitled,  Stenographic  Sound-Hand  and 
had  learned  its  alphabet  and  practised  the  use  of  it. 
That  evening  I  took  down  the  remarks  of  Mr. 
Hacket  in  sound-hand. 

The  academy  chapel  was  crowded  with  the  older 
boys  and  girls  and  the  town  folk.  The  master  never 
clipped  his  words  in  school  as  he  was  wont  to  do 
;when  talking  familiarly  with  the  children. 


282      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

"Since  the  leaves  fell  our  little  village  has  occu 
pied  the  center  of  the  stage  before  an  audience  of 
millions  in  the  great  theater  of  congress.  Our  leading 
citizen — the  chief  actor — has  been  crowned  with  im 
mortal  fame.  We  who  watched  the  play  were  thrilled 
by  the  query :  Will  Uncle  Sam  yield  to  temptation 
or  cling  to  honor  ?  He  has  chosen  the  latter  course 
and  we  may  still  hear  the  applause  in  distant  galleries 
beyond  the  sea.  He  has  decided  that  the  public  rev 
enues  must  be  paid  in  honest  money. 

"My  friend  and  classmate,  George  Bancroft,  the 
historian,  has  written  this  letter  to  me  out  of  a  full 
heart: 


"  'Your  fellow  townsman,  Silas  Wright,  is  now  the 
largest  figure  in  Washington.  We  were  all  worried 
by  the  resolution  of  Henry  Clay  until  it  began  to 
crumble  under  the  irresistible  attack  of  Mr.  Wright. 
On  the  16th  he  submitted  a  report  upon  it  which  for 
lucid  and  accurate  statements  presented  in  the  most 
unpretending  manner,  won  universal  admiration  and 
will  be  remembered  alike  for  its  intrinsic  excellence 
and  for  having  achieved  one  of  the  most  memorable 
victories  ever  gained  in  the  United  States  Senate. 
After  a  long  debate  Clay  himself,  compelled  by  the 
irresistible  force  of  argument  in  the  report  of  Mr. 
Wright,  was  obliged  to  retire  from  his  position, 
his  resolution  having  been  rejected  by  a  vote  of 
44  to  1.' " 


THE  THING  AND  OTHER  THINGS    283 

With  what  pride  and  joy  I  heard  of  this  great 
thing  that  my  friend  had  accomplished !  The  school 
master  went  on  : 

"It  is  a  very  good  and  proper  thing,  my  boys,  that 
you  should  be  inspired  by  the  example  of  the  great 
man,  whose  home  is  here  among  us  and  whose  be 
loved  face  is  as  familiar  as  my  own,  to  try  your  tal 
ents  in  the  service  of  the  state.  There  are  certain 
things  that  I  would  have  you  remember. 

"First — Know  your  subject — inside  and  outside 
and  round  about  and  from  beginning  to  end. 

"Second — Know  the  opinions  of  wise  men  and 
your  own  regarding  it. 

"Third — Be  modest  in  the  use  of  your  own  opin 
ions  and  above  all  be  honest. 

"Fourth — Remember  that  it  is  your  subject  and  not 
yourself  that  is  of  prime  importance.  You  will  be 
tempted  to  think  that  you  are  the  great  part  of  the 
business.  My  young  friends,  it  will  not  be  true.  It 
can  not  be  true.  It  is  not  you  but  the  thing  you  stand 
for  that  is  important. 

"Fifth — The  good  of  all  the  people  must  be  the 
thing  you  stand  for — the  United  States  of  America. 

"Now  I  \vish  you  to  observe  how  our  great  fellow 
townsman  keeps  his  subject  to  the  fore  and  himself 
in  the  background. 

"It  was  in  1834  that  he  addressed  the  Senate  re 
garding  the  deposits  of  public  money.  He  rose  to 


284      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

voice  the  wishes  of  the  people  of  this  state.  If  he 
had  seemed  to  be  expressing  his  own  opinions  he 
would  have  missed  his  great  point.  Now  mark  how 
he  cast  himself  aside  when  he  began : 

"  'I  must  not  be  understood  as,  for  one  moment, 
entertaining  the  vain  impression  that  opinions  and 
views  pronounced  by  me,  here  or  elsewhere,  will 
acquire  any  importance  because  they  are  my  opinions 
and  views.  I  know  well,  sir,  that  my  name  carries 
not  with  it  authority  anywhere,  but  I  know,  also, 
that  so  far  as  I  may  entertain  and  shall  express  opin 
ions  which  are,  or  which  shall  be  found,  in  accord 
with  the  enlightened  public  opinion  of  this  coun 
try,  so  far  they  will  be  sustained  and  no  further/ 

"Then  by  overwhelming  proof  he  set  forth  the 
opinion  of  our  people  on  the  subject  in  hand. 
Studiously  the  Senator  has  hidden  himself  in  his 
task  and  avoided  in  every  possible  way  attracting 
attention  from  his  purposes  to  his  personality. 

"Invitations  to  accept  public  dinners  as  a  compli 
ment  to  himself  have  received  from  him  this  kind  of 
reply: 

"  'A  proper  attention  to  the  duties,  on  the  dis 
charge  of  which  you  so  kindly  desire  to  compliment 
me  requires  that  I  should  decline  your  invitation.' ' 

All  this  was  new  to  me,  although  much  more  was 
said  touching  his  love  for  simple  folk  regarding 


THE  THING  AND  OTHER  THINGS    285 

which  I  needed  no  instruction.  Altogether,  it  helped 
me  to  feel  the  deep  foundations  on  which  my  friend, 
the  Senator,  had  been  building  in  his  public  life. 

Going  out  with  the  crowd  that  evening,  I  met 
Sally  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dunkelberg.  The  latter  did 
not  speak  to  me  and  when  I  asked  Sally  if  I  could 
walk  home  with  her  she  answered  curtly,  "No,  thank 
you." 

In  following  the  schoolmaster  I  have  got  a  bit 
ahead  of  my  history.  Soon  after  the  opening  of  the 
new  year — ten  days  or  so  later  it  may  have  been — 
I  had  begun  to  feel  myself  encompassed  by  a  new 
and  subtle  force.  It  was  a  thing  as  intangible  as 
heat  but  as  real  as  fire  and  more  terrible,  it  seemed 
to  me.  I  felt  it  first  in  the  attitude  of  my  play  fel 
lows.  They  denied  me  the  confidence  and  intimacy 
which  I  had  enjoyed  before.  They  whispered  to 
gether  in  my  presence.  In  all  this  I  had  not  failed 
to  observe  that  Henry  Wills  had  taken  a  leading 
part.  The  invisible,  inaudible,  mysterious  thing 
wrought  a  great  change  in  me.  It  followed  me 
through  the  day  and  lay  down  with  me  at  night.  I 
wondered  what  I  had  done.  I  carefully  surveyed  my 
clothes.  They  looked  all  right  to  me.  My  char 
acter  was  certainly  no  worse  than  it  had  been.  How 
it  preyed  upon  my  peace  and  rest  and  happiness — 
that  mysterious  hidden  thing ! 

One  day  Uncle  Peabody  came  down  to  see  me  and 


286      THE  EIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

I  walked  through  the  village  with  him.  We  met  Mr. 
Dunkelberg,  who  merely  nodded  and  hurried  along. 
Mr.  Bridges,  the  merchant,  did  not  greet  him 
warmly  and  chat  with  him  as  he  had  been  wont  to 
do.  I  saw  that  The  Thing — as  I  had  come  to  think 
of  it — was  following  him  also.  How  it  darkened 
his  face!  Even  now  I  can  feel  the  aching  of  the 
deep,  bloodless  wounds  of  that  day.  I  could  bear 
it  better  alone.  We  were  trying  to  hide  our  pain 
from  each  other  when  we  said  good-by.  How 
quickly  my  uncle  turned  away  and  walked  toward 
the  sheds !  He  came  rarely  to  the  village  of  Canton 
after  that. 

I  was  going  home  at  noon  one  day  and  while  pass 
ing  a  crowd  of  boys  I  was  shoved  rudely  into  the 
fence.  Turning,  I  saw  Henry  Wills  and  my  fist 
flashed  to  his  face.  He  fell  backward  and  rising 
called  me  a  thief  and  the  son  of  a  thief.  He  had  not 
finished  the  words  when  I  was  upon  him.  The 
others  formed  a  ring  around  us  and  we  began  a  sav 
age  battle.  One  of  Wills'  friends  tried  to  trip  me. 
In  the  midst  of  it  I  saw  the  schoolmaster  just  outside 
the  ring.  He  seized  a  boy  by  the  collar. 

"There'll  be  no  more  interference,"  said  he.  "It's 
goin'  to  be  a  fair  fight." 

I  had  felt  another  unfriendly  foot  but  had  not  seen 
its  owner.  We  fought  up  and  down,  with  lips  and 
noses  bleedkig.  At  last  the  time  had  come  when  I 


THE  THING  AND  OTHER  THINGS    287 

was  quicker  and  stronger  than  he.  Soon  Henry 
Wills  lay  on  the  ground  before  me  with  no  disposi 
tion  to  go  on  with  the  fight.  I  helped  him  up  and  he 
turned  away  from  me.  Some  of  the  boys  began  to 
jeer  him. 

"He's  a  gentleman  compared  with  the  rest  o'  you," 
I  said.  "He  had  courage  enough  to  say  what  he 
thought.  There's  not  another  one  o'  you  would  dare 
do  it — not  a  one  o'  you." 

Then  said  the  schoolmaster : 

"If  there's  any  more  o'  you  boys  that  has  any  such 
opinion  o'  Bart  Baynes  let  him  be  man  enough  to  step 
up  an5  say  it  now.  If  he  don't  he  ought  to  be  man 
enough  to  change  his  mind  on  the  spot." 

A  number  of  the  boys  and  certain  of  the  towns 
folk  who  had  gathered  about  us  clapped  their  hands. 
For  a  long  time  thereafter  I  wondered  why  Henry 
had  called  me  a  thief.  I  concluded  that  it  was  be 
cause  "thief"  was  the  meanest  word  he  could  think 
of  in  his  anger.  However  that  might  be,  The  Thing 
forsook  me.  I  felt  no  more  its  cold,  mysterious 
shadow  between  me  and  my  school  fellows.  It  had 
stepped  out  of  my  path  into  that  of  Henry  Wills. 
His  popularity  waned  and  a  lucky  circumstance  it 
was  for  him.  From  that  day  he  began  to  take  to  his 
books  and  to  improve  his  standing  in  the  school. 

I  observed  that  he  did.  not  go  about  with  Sally  as 
he  had  done.  I  had  had  no  wor4  vsriih  her  since  the 


288       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

night  of  Mr.  Racket's  lecture  save  the  briefest  greet 
ing  as  we  passed  each  other  in  the  street.  Those 
fine  winter  days  I  used  to  see  her  riding  a  chestnut 
pony  with  a  long  silver  mane  that  flowed  back  to 
her  yellow  curls  in  his  lope.  I  loved  the  look  of  her 
as  she  went  by  me  in  the  saddle  and  a  longing  came 
into  my  heart  that  she  should  think  well  of  me.  I 
made  an  odd  resolve.  It  was  this:  I  would  make 
it  impossible  for  her  to  think  ill  of  me. 

I  went  home  one  Saturday,  having  thought  much 
of  my  aunt  and  uncle  since  The  Thing  had  descended 
upon  us.  I  found  them  well  and  as  cheerful  as  ever. 
For  fear  of  disturbing  their  peace  I  said  nothing  of 
my  fight  with  Wills  or  the  cause  of  it.  Uncle  Pea- 
body  had  cut  the  timber  for  our  new  house  and 
hauled  it  to  the  mill.  I  returned  to  school  in  a  better 
mind  about  them. 

May  had  returned — a  warm  bright  May.  The 
roads  were  dry.  The  thorn  trees  had  thatched  their 
shapely  roofs  with  vivid  green.  The  maple  leaves 
were  bigger  than  a  squirrel's  foot,  which  meant  as 
well,  I  knew,  that  the  trout  were  jumping.  The 
robins  had  returned.  I  had  entered  my  seventeenth 
year  and  the  work  of  the  term  was  finished. 

Having  nothing  to  do  one  afternoon,  I  walked  out 
on  the  road  toward  Ogdensburg  for  a  look  at  the 
woods  and  fields.  Soon  I  thought  that  I  heard  the 


THE  THING  AND  OTHEB  THINGS    289 

sound  of  galloping  hoofs  behind  me.  Turning,  I 
saw  nothing,  but  imagined  Sally  coming  and  pulling 
up  at  my  side.  I  wondered  what  I  should  say  if  she 
were  really  to  come. 

"Sally  I"  I  exclaimed.  "I  have  been  looking  at 
the  violets  and  the  green  fields  and  back  there  I  saw 
a  thorn  tree  turning  white,  but  I  have  seen  no  fairer 
thing  than  you." 

They  surprised  me  a  little — those  fine  words  that 
came  so  easily.  What  a  school  of  talk  was  the 
house  I  lived  in  those  days ! 

"I  guess  I'm  getting  Mr.  Racket's  gift  o'  gab,"  I 
said  to  myself. 

Again  I  heard  the  sound  of  galloping  hoofs  and  as 
I  looked  back  I  saw  Sally  rounding  the  turn  by  the 
river  and  coming  toward  me  at  full  speed,  the  mane 
of  her  pony  flying  back  to  her  face.  She  pulled  up 
beside  me  just  as  I  had  imagined  she  would  do. 

"Bart,  I  hate  somebody  terribly,"  said  she. 

"Whom?" 

"A  man  who  is  coming  to  our  house  on  the  stage 
to-day.  Granny  Barnes  is  trying  to  get  up  a  match 
between  us.  Father  says  he  is  rich  and  hopes  he  will 
want  to  marry  me.  I  got  mad  about  it.  He  is  four 
years  older  than  I  am.  Isn't  that  awful?  I  am  go 
ing  to  be  just  as  mean  and  hateful  to  him  as  I  can," 

"I  guess  they're  only  fooling  you,"  I  said. 


290       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

"No,  they  mean  it.    I  have  heard  them  talking  it 


over." 


"He  can  not  marry  you." 

"Why?" 

It  seemed  to  me  that  the  time  had  come  for  me  to 
speak  out,  and  with  burning  cheeks  I  said : 

"Because  I  think  that  God  has  married  you  to  me 
already.  Do  you  remember  when  we  kissed  each 
other  by  the  wheat-field  one  day  last  summer?" 

"Yes."  She  was  looking  down  at  the  mane  of  her 
pony  and  her  cheeks  were  red  and  her  voice  re 
minded  me  of  the  echoes  that  fill  the  cavern  of  a  vio 
lin  when  a  string  is  touched. 

"Seems  to  me  we  were  married  that  day.  Seems 
so,  every  time  I  think  of  it,  God  asked  me  all  the 
questions  an'  I  answered  yes  to  'em.  Do  ye  remem 
ber  after  we  had  kissed  each  other  how  that  little 
bird  sang?" 

"Yes." 

We  had  faced  about  and  were  walking  back  to 
ward  Canton,  I  close  by  the  pony's  side. 

"May  I  kiss  you  again?" 

She  stopped  the  pony  and  leaned  toward  me  and 
our  lips  met  in  a  kiss  the  thought  of  which  makes  me 
lay  down  my  pen  and  bow  my  head  a  moment  while 
I  think  with  reverence  of  that  pure,  sweet  spring  of 
memory  in  whose  waters  I  love  to  wash  my  spirit. 

We  walked  on  and  a  song  sparrow  followed  us 


She  stopped  the  pony  and  leaned  toward  me 


THE  THING*  AND  OTHER  THINGS    291 

perching  on  the  fence-rails  and  blessing  us  with  his 
song. 

"I  guess  God  has  married  us  again,"  I  declared. 

"I  knew  that  you  were  walking  on  this  road  and  I 
had  to  see  you,"  said  she.  "People  have  been  say 
ing  such  terrible  things." 

"What?" 

"They  say  your  uncle  found  the  pocketbook  that 
was  lost  and  kept  the  money.  They  say  he  was  the 
first  man  that  went  up  the  road  after  it  was  lost." 

Now  The  Thing  stood  uncovered  before  me  in  all 
its  ugliness — The  Thing  born  not  of  hate  but  of  the 
mere  love  of  excitement  in  people  wearied  by  the  dull 
routine  and  the  reliable,  plodding  respectability  of 
that  countryside.  The  crime  of  Amos  had  been  a 
great  help  in  its  way  but  as  a  topic  it  was  worn  out 
and  would  remain  so  until  court  convened. 

"It's  a  lie — my  uncle  never  saw  the  pocketbook. 
Some  money  was  left  to  him  by  a  relative  in  Ver 
mont.  That's  how  it  happened  that  he  bought  a 
farm  instead  of  going  to  the  poorhouse  when  Grim- 
shaw  put  the  screws  on  him." 

"I  knew  that  your  uncle  didn't  do  it,"  she  went  on. 
"Father  and  mother  couldn't  tell  you.  So  I  had  to." 

"Why  couldn't  your  father  and  mother  tell  me  ?" 

"They  didn't  dare.  Mr.  Grimshaw  made  them 
promise  that  they  would  not  speak  to  you  or  to  any 
of  your  family.  I  heard  them  say  that  you  and 


292      THE  LIGST  IN  THE  CLEARING 

your  uncle  did  right.  Father  told  mother  that  he 
never  knew  a  man  so  honest  as  your  Uncle  Pea- 
body." 

We  went  on  in  silence  for  a  moment. 

"I  guess  you  know  now  why  I  couldn't  let  you  go 
home  with  me  that  night,"  she  remarked. 

"Yes,  and  I  think  I  know  why  you  wouldn't  have 
anything  more  to  do  with  Henry  Wills." 

"I  hate  him.  He  said  such  horrid  things  about 
you  and  your  uncle." 

In  a  moment  she  asked :  "What  time  is  it?" 

I  looked  at  my  new  watch  and  answered:  "It 
wants  ten  minutes  of  five." 

"The  stage  is  in  long  ago.  They  will  be  coming 
up  this  road  to  meet  me.  Father  was  going  to  take 
him  for  a  walk  before  supper." 

Just  then  we  came  upon  the  Silent  Woman  sit 
ting  among  the  dandelions  by  the  roadside.  She 
held  a  cup  in  her  hand  with  some  honey  on  its  bot 
tom  and  covered  with  a  piece  of  glass. 

"She  is  hunting  bees,"  I  said  as  we  stopped  be 
side  her. 

She  rose  and  patted  my  shoulder  with  a  smile 
and  threw  a  kiss  to  Sally.  Suddenly  her  face  grew 
stern.  She  pointed  toward  the  village  and  then  at 
Sally.  Up  went  her  arm  high  above  her  head  with 
one  finger  extended  in  that  ominous  gesture  so  fa 
miliar  to  me. 


THE  THING  AND  OTHEE  THINGS    293 

"She  means  that  there  is  some  danger  ahead  of 
you/'  I  said. 

The  Silent  Woman  picked  a  long  blade  of  grass 
and  tipped  its  end  in  the  honey  at  the  bottom  of  the 
cup.  She  came  close  to  Sally  with  the  blade  of 
grass  between  her  thumb  and  finger. 

"She  is  fixing  a  charm,"  I  said. 

She  smiled  and  nodded  as  she  put  a  drop  of  honey 
on  Sally's  upper  lip. 

She  held  up  her  hands  while  her  lips  moved  as  if 
she  were  blessing  us. 

"I  suppose  it  will  not  save  me  if  I  brush  it  off," 
said  Sally. 

We  went  on  and  in  a  moment  a  bee  lighted  on  the 
honey.  Nervously  she  struck  at  it  and  then  cried  out 
with  pain. 

"The  bee  has  stung  you,"  I  said. 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  handkerchief  and 
made  no  answer. 

"Wait  a  minute — I'll  get  some  clay,"  I  said  as 
I  ran  to  the  river  bank. 

I  found  some  clay  and  moistened  it  with  the 
water  and  returned. 

"There,  look  at  me !"  she  groaned.  "The  bee  hit 
my  nose." 

She  uncovered  her  face,  now  deformed  almost 
beyond  recognition,  her  nose  having  swollen  to  one 
of  great  size  and  redness. 


294      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

"You  look  like  Rodney  Barnes,"  I  said  with  a 
laugh  as  I  applied  the  clay  to  her  afflicted  nose. 

"And  I  feel  like  the  old  boy.  I  think  my  nose  is 
trying  to  jump  off  and  run  away." 

The  clay  having  been  well  applied  she  began  sur 
veying  herself  with  a  little  hand  mirror  which  she 
had  carried  in  the  pocket  of  her  riding  coat. 

"What  a  fright  I  am !"  she  mused. 

"But  you  are  the  best  girl  in  the  world." 

"Don't  waste  your  pretty  talk  on  me  now.  I 
can't  enjoy  it — my  nose  aches  so.  I'd  rather  you'd 
tell  me  when — when  it  is  easier  for  you  to  say  it." 

"We  don't  see  each  other  very  often." 

"If  you  will  come  out  on  this  road  next  Saturday 
afternoon  I  will  ride  until  I  find  you  and  then  we 
can  have  another  talk." 

"All  right.  I'll  be  here  at  four-thirty  and  I'll 
be  thinking  about  it  every  day  until  then." 

"My  nose  feels  better  now,"  she  said  presently 
and  added :  "You  might  tell  me  a  little  more  if  you 
want  to." 

"I  love  you  even  when  you  have  ceased  to  be 
beautiful,"  I  said  with  the  ardor  of  the  young. 

"That  is  grand !  You  know  old  age  will  sting  us 
by  and  by,  Bart,"  she  answered  with  a  sigh  and  in 
a  tone  of  womanly  wisdom. 

We  were  nearing  the  village.    She  wiped  the  mud 


THE  THING  AND  OTHER  THINGS    295 

from  her  prodigious  nose  and  I  wet  her  handker 
chief  in  a  pool  of  water  and  helped  her  to  wash  it. 
Soon  we  saw  two  men  approaching  us  in  the  road. 
In  a  moment  I  observed  that  one  was  Mr.  Horace 
Dunkelberg;  the  other  a  stranger  and  a  remarkably 
handsome  young  man  he  was,  about  twenty-two 
years  of  age  and  dressed  in  the  height  of  fashion.  I 
remember  so  well  his  tall,  athletic  figure,  his  gray 
eyes,  his  small  dark  mustache  and  his  admirable 
manners.  Both  were  appalled  at  the  look  of  Sally. 

"Why,  girl,  what  has  happened  to  you?"  her 
father  asked. 

Then  I  saw  what  a  playful  soul  was  Sally's.  The 
girl  was  a  born  actress. 

"Been  riding  in  the  country,"  said  she.  "Is  this 
Mr.  Latour?" 

"This  is  Mr.  Latour,  Sally,"  said  her  father. 

They  shook  hands. 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you,"  said  the  stranger. 

"They  say  I  am  worth  seeing,"  said  Sally.  "This 
is  my  friend,  Mr.  Baynes.  When  you  are  tired  of 
seeing  me,  look  at  him." 

I  shook  the  hand  he  offered  me. 

"Of  course,  we  can't  all  be  good  looking,"  Sally 
remarked  with  a  sigh,  as  if  her  misfortune  were 
permanent. 

Mr.  Horace  Dunkelberg  and  I  laughed  heartily 


296       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

— for  I  had  told  him  in  a  whisper  what  had  hap 
pened  to  Sally — while  Mr.  Latour  looked  a  little 
embarrassed. 

"My  face  is  not  beautiful,  but  they  say  that  I 
have  a  good  heart,"  Sally  assured  the  stranger. 

They  started  on.  I  excused  myself  and  took  a 
trail  through  the  woods  to  another  road.  Just  there, 
with  Sally  waving  her  hand  to  me  as  I  stood  for  a 
moment  in  the  edge  of  the  woods,  the  curtain  falls 
on  this  highly  romantic  period  of  my  life. 

Uncle  Peabody  came  for  me  that  evening.  It  was 
about  the  middle  of  the  next  week  that  I  received 
this  letter  from  Sally : 

"DEAR  BART — Mr.  Latour  gave  up  and  drove  to 
Potsdam  in  the  evening.  Said  he  had  to  meet  Mr. 
Parish.  I  think  that  he  had  seen  enough  of  me.  I 
began  to  hope  he  would  stay — he  was  so  good  look 
ing,  but  mother  is  very  glad  that  he  went,  and  so  am 
I,  for  our  minister  told  us  that  he  is  one  of  the  wick 
edest  young  men  in  the  state.  He  is  very  rich  and 
very  bad,  they  say.  I  wonder  if  old  Kate  knew 
about  him.  Her  charm  worked  well  anyway — 
didn't  it?  My  nose  was  all  right  in  the  morning. 
Sorry  that  I  can't  meet  you  Saturday.  Mother  and 
I  are  packing  up  to  go  away  for  the  summer.  Don't 
forget  me.  I  shall  be  thinking  every  day  of  those 
lovely  things  you  said  to  me.  I  don't  know  what 
they  will  try  to  do  with  me,  and  I  don't  care.  I 


THE  THING  AND  OTHER  THINGS    297 

really  think  as  you  do,  Bart,  that  God  has  married 
us  to  each  other. 

"Yours  forever, 

"SALLY  DUNKELBERG." 

How  often  I  read  those  words — so  like  all  the 
careless  words  of  the  young! 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  BOLT   FALLS 

THREE  times  that  winter  I  had  seen  Ben 
jamin  Grimshaw  followed  by  the  Silent 
Woman  clothed  in  rags  and  pointing  with 
her  finger.  Mr.  Hacket  said  that  she  probably 
watched  for  him  out  of  her  little  window  above  the 
blacksmith  shop  that  overlooked  the  south  road. 
When  he  came  to  town  she  followed.  I  always 
greeted  the  woman  when  I  passed  her,  but  when  she 
was  on  the  trail  of  the  money-lender  she  seemed 
unaware  of  my  presence,  so  intent  was  she  on  the 
strange  task  she  had  set  herself.  If  he  were  not 
in  sight  she  smiled  when  passing  me,  but  neither 
spoke  nor  nodded. 

Grimshaw  had  gone  about  his  business  as  usual 
when  I  saw  him  last,  but  I  had  noted  a  look  of  the 
worried  rat  in  his  face.  He  had  seemed  to  be  under 
extreme  irritation.  He  scolded  every  man  who 
spoke  to  him.  The  notion  came  to  me  that  her 
finger  was  getting  down  to  the  quick. 

The  trial  of  Amos  came  on.    He  had  had  "blood 

298 


THE  BOLT  FALLS  299 

on  his  feet/'  as  they  used  to  say,  all  the  way  from 
Lickitysplit  to  Lewis  County  in  his  flight,  having 
attacked  and  slightly  wounded  two  men  with  a 
bowie  knife  who  had  tried  to  detain  him  at  Rainy 
Lake.  He  had  also  shot  at  an  officer  in  the  vicinity 
of  Lowville,  where  his  arrest  was  effected.  He  had 
been  identified  by  all  these  men,  and  so  his  char 
acter  as  a  desperate  man  had  been  established.  This 
in  connection  with  the  scar  on  his  face  and  the 
tracks,  which  the  boots  of  Amos  fitted,  and  the 
broken  gun  stock  convinced  the  jury  of  his  guilt. 

The  most  interesting  bit  of  testimony  which  came 
out  at  the  trial  was  this  passage  from  a  yellow 
paper-covered  tale  which  had  been  discovered  hid 
den  in  the  haymow  of  the  Grimshaw  barn: 

"Lightfoot  waited  in  the  bushes  with  his  trusty 
rifle  in  hand.  When  the  two  unsuspecting  travelers 
reached  a  point  nearly  opposite  him  he  raised  his 
rifle  and  glanced  over  its  shining  barrel  and  saw 
that  the  flight  of  his  bullet  would  cut  the  throats  of 
both  his  persecutors.  He  pulled  the  trigger  and  the 
bullet  sped  to  its  mark.  Both  men  plunged  to  the 
ground  as  if  they  had  been  smitten  by  a  thunder 
bolt.  Lightfoot  leaped  from  cover  and  seized  the 
rearing  horses,  and  mounting  one  of  them  while  he 
led  the  other,  headed  them  down  the  trail,  and  in  no 
great  hurry,  for  he  knew  that  the  lake  was  between 
him  and  Blodgett  and  that  the  latter' s  boat  was  in  no 
condition  to  hold  water." 


30Q      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

It  was  the  swift  and  deadly  execution  of  Light- 
foot  which  Amos  had  been  imitating,  as  he  presently 
confessed. 

I  knew  then  the  power  of  words — even  foolish 
words — over  the  minds  of  the  young  when  they  are 
printed  and  spread  abroad. 

I  remember  well  the  look  of  the  venerable  Judge 
Cady  as  he  pronounced  the  sentence  of  death  upon 
Amos  Grimshaw.  A  ray  of  sunlight  slanting 
through  a  window  in  the  late  afternoon  fell  upon 
his  gracious  countenance,  shining  also,  with  the 
softer  light  of  his  spirit.  Slowly,  solemnly,  kindly, 
he  spoke  the  words  of  doom.  It  was  his  way  of 
saying  them  that  first  made  me  feel  the  dignity  and 
majesty  of  the  law,  The  kind  and  fatherly  tone  of 
his  voice  put  me  in  mind  of  that  Supremest  Court 
which  is  above  all  question  and  which  was  swiftly 
to  enter  judgment  in  this  matter  and  in  others  re 
lated  to  it. 

Slowly  the  crowd  moved  out  of  the  court  room. 
Benjamin  Grimshaw  rose  and  calmly  whispered  to 
his  lawyer.  He  had  not  spoken  to  his  son  or  seemed 
to  notice  him  since  the  trial  had  begun,  nor  did  he 
now.  Many  had  shed  tears  that  day,  but  not  he. 
Mr.  Grimshaw  never  showed  but  one  emotion — that 
of  anger.  He  was  angry  now.  His  face  was  hard 
and  stern.  He  muttered  as  he  walked  out  of  the 
court  room,  his  cane  briskly  beating  the  floor.  I  and 


THE  BOLT  FALLS  301 

others  followed  him,  moved  by  differing  motives.  I 
was  sorry  for  him  and  if  I  had  dared  I  should  have 
told  him  that.  I  was  amazed  to  see  how  sturdily 
he  stood  under  this  blow — like  a  mighty  oak  in  a 
storm.  The  look  of  him  thrilled  me — it  suggested 
that  something  was  going  to  happen. 

The  Silent  Woman — as  ragged  as  ever — was 
waiting  on  the  steps.  Out  \vent  her  bony  finger  as 
he  came  down.  He  turned  and  struck  at  her  with 
his  cane  and  shouted  in  a  shrill  voice  that  rang  out 
like  a  trumpet  in  his  frenzy : 

"Go  'way  from  me.  Take  her  away,  somebody. 
I  can't  stan'  it.  She's  killin'  me.  Take  her  away. 
Take  her  away.  Take  her  away." 

His  face  turned  purple  and  then  white.  He  reeled 
and  fell  headlong,  like  a  tree  severed  from  its  roots, 
and  lay  still  on  the  hard,  stone  pavement.  It  seemed 
as  if  snow  were  falling  on  his  face — it  grew  so 
white.  The  Silent  Woman  stood  as  still  as  he,  point 
ing  at  him  with  her  finger,  her  look  unchanged. 
People  came  running  toward  us.  I  lifted  the  head 
of  Mr.  Grimshaw  and  laid  it  on  my  knee.  It  felt 
like  the  head  of  the  stranger  in  Rattleroad.  Old 
Kate  bent  over  and  looked  at  the  eyelids  of  the 
man,  which  fluttered  faintly  and  were  still. 

"Dead !"  she  muttered. 

Then,  as  if  her  work  were  finished,  she  turned 
and  made  her  way  through  the  crowd  and  walked 


302      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING* 

slowly  down  the  street.  Men  stood  aside  to  let  her 
pass,  as  if  they  felt  the  power  of  her  spirit  and 
feared  the  touch  of  her  garments. 

Two  or  three  men  had  run  to  the  house  of  the 
nearest  doctor.  The  crowd  thickened.  As  I  sat 
looking  down  at  the  dead  face  in  my  lap,  a  lawyer 
who  had  come  out  of  the  court  room  pressed  near 
me  and  bent  over  and  looked  at  the  set  eyes  of  Ben 
jamin  Grimshaw  and  said : 

"She  floored  him  at  last.  I  knew  she  would.  He 
tried  not  to  see  her,  but  I  tell  ye  that  bony  old  fingel 
of  hers  burnt  a  hole  in  him.  He  couldn't  stand  it. 
I  knew  he'd  blow  up  some  day  under  the  strain.  She 
got  him  at  last." 

"Who  got  him?"  another  asked. 

"Rovin'  Kate.  She  killed  him  pointing  her  finger 
at  him — so." 

"She's  got  an  evil  eye.  Everybody's  afraid  o'  the 
crazy  ol'  Trollope!" 

"Nonsense!  She  isn't  half  as  crazy  as  the  most 
of  us,"  said  the  lawyer.  "In  my  opinion  she  had  a 
good  reason  for  pointing  her  finger  at  that  man. 
She  came  from  the  same  town  he  did  over  in  Ver 
mont.  Ye  don't  know  what  happened  there." 

The  doctor  arrived.  The  crowds  made  way  fof 
him.  He  knelt  beside  the  still  figure  and  made  the 
tests.  He  rose  and  shook  his  head,  saying : 


THE  BOLT  FALLS  303 

"It's  all  over.  Let  one  o'  these  boys  go  down  and 
bring  the  undertaker.'* 

Benjamin  Grimshaw,  the  richest  man  in  the 
township,  was  dead,  and  I  have  yet  to  hear  of  any 
mourners. 

Three  days  later  I  saw  his  body  lowered  into  its 
grave.  The  little,  broken-spirited  wife  stood  there 
with  the  same  sad  smile  on  her  face  that  I  had  noted 
when  I  first  saw  her  in  the  hills.  Rovin'  Kate  was 
there  in  the  clothes  she  had  worn  Christmas  day. 
She  was  greatly  changed.  Her  hair  was  neatly 
combed.  The  wild  look  had  left  her  eyes.  She  was 
like  one  \vhose  back  is  relieved  of  a  heavy  burden. 
Her  lips  moved  as  she  scattered  little  red  squares  of 
paper  into  the  grave.  I  suppose  they  thought  it  a 
crazy  whim  of  hers — they  wrho  saw  her  do  it.  I 
thought  that  I  understood  the  curidus  bit  of  symbol 
ism  and  so  did  the  schoolmaster,  who  stood  beside 
me.  Doubtless  the  pieces  of  paper  numbered  her 
curses. 

"The  scarlet  sins  of  his  youth  are  lying  down  with 
him  in  the  dust,"  Hacket  whispered  as  we  walked 
away  together. 


END  OF   BOOK   TWO 


BOOK  THREE 

Which  is  the  Story  of  the  Chosen 

Ways 


CHAPTER  XV 
UNCLE  PEABODY'S  WAY  AND  MINE 

1AM  old  and  love  my  ease  and  sometimes  dare 
to  think  that  I  have  earned  it.  Why  do  I  im 
pose  upon  myself  the  task  of  writing  down 
these  memories,  searching  them  and  many  notes  and 
records  with  great  care  so  that  in  every  voice  and 
deed  the  time  shall  speak?  My  first  care  has  been 
that  neither  vanity  nor  pride  should  mar  a  word  of 
all  these  I  have  written  or  shall  write.  So  I  keep 
my  name  from  you,  dear  reader,  for  there  is  nothing 
you  can  give  me  that  I  want.  I  have  learned  my 
lesson  in  that  distant  time  and,  having  learned  it, 
give  you  the  things  I  stand  for  and  keep  myself 
under  a  mask.  These  things  urge  me  to  my  task. 
I  do  it  that  I  may  give  to  you — my  countrymen — • 
the  best  fruitage  of  the  great  garden  of  my  youth 
and  save  it  from  the  cold  storage  of  unknowing 
history. 

It  is  a  bad  thing  to  be  under  a  heavy  obligation  to 
one's  self  of  which,  thank  God,  I  am  now  acquitted. 
I  have  known  men  who  were  their  own  worst  cred- 

307 


808      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEAKING 

itors.  Everything  they  earned  went  swiftly  to  sat 
isfy  the  demands  of  Vanity  or  Pride  or  Appetite. 
I  have  seen  them  literally  put  out  of  house  and 
home,  thrown  neck  and  crop  into  the  street,  as  it 
were,  by  one  or  the  other  of  these  heartless  creditors 
— each  a  grasping  usurer  with  unjust  claims. 

I  remember  that  Rodney  Barnes  called  for  my 
chest  and  me  that  fine  morning  in  early  June  when 
I  was  to  go  back  to  the  hills,  my  year's  work  in 
school  being  ended.  I  elected  to  walk,  and  the 
schoolmaster  went  with  me  five  miles  or  more  across 
the  flats  to  the  slope  of  the  high  country.  I  felt  very 
wise  with  that  year's  learning  in  my  head.  Doubt 
less  the  best  of  it  had  come  not  in  school.  It  had 
taken  me  close  to  the  great  stage  and  in  a  way  lifted 
the  curtain.  I  was  most  attentive,  knowing  that 
presently  I  should  get  my  part. 

"I've  been  thinking,  Bart,  o'  your  work  in  the  last 
year,"  said  the  schoolmaster  as  we  walked.  "Ye 
have  studied  six  books  and  one — God  help  ye !  An' 
I  think  ye  have  got  more  out  o'  the  one  than  ye  have 
out  o'  the  six." 

In  a  moment  of  silence  that  followed  I  counted 
the  books  on  my  fingers:  Latin,  Arithmetic,  Alge 
bra,  Grammar,  Geography,  History.  What  was  this 
one  book  he  referred  to? 

"It's  God's  book  o'  life,  boy,  an'  I  should  say  ye'd 
done  very  well  in  it." 


UNCLE  PEABODY'S  WAY  AND  MINE    309 

After  a  little  he  asked :  "Have  ye  ever  heard  of 
a  man  who  had  the  Grimshaws  ?" 

I  shook  my  head  as  I  looked  at  him,  not  knowing 
just  what  he  was  driving  at. 

"Sure,  it's  a  serious  illness  an*  it  has  two  phases. 
First  there's  the  Grimshaw  o'  greed — swinish, 
heartless  greed — the  other  is  the  Grimshaw  o'  van 
ity — the  strutter,  with  sword  at  belt,  who  would 
have  men  bow  or  flee  before  him." 

That  is  all  he  said  of  that  seventh  book  and  it  was 
enough. 

"Soon  the  Senator  will  be  coming,"  he  remarked 
presently.  "I  have  a  long  letter  from  him  and  he 
asks  about  you  and  your  aunt  and  uncle.  I  think 
that  he  is  fond  o'  you,  boy." 

"I  wish  you  would  let  me  know  when  he  comes," 
I  said. 

"I  am  sure  he  will  let  you  know,  and,  by  the  way, 
I  have  heard  from  another  friend  o'  yours,  my  lad. 
Ye' re  a  lucky  one  to  have  so  many  friends — sure 
ye  are.  Here,  I'll  show  ye  the  letter.  There's  no 
reason  why  I  shouldn't.  Ye  will  know  its  writer, 
probably.  I  do  not." 

So  saying  he  handed  me  this  letter : 

"CANTERBURY,  VT., 

"June  1. 

"DEAR  SIR — I  am  interested  in  the  boy  Barton 
Baynes.  Good  words  about  him  have  been  flying 


310      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

around  like  pigeons.  When  school  is  out  I  would 
like  to  hear  from  you,  what  is  the  record?  What 
do  you  think  of  the  soul  in  him?  What  kind  of 
work  is  best  for  it?  If  you  will  let  me  maybe  I  can 
help  the  plans  of  God  a  little.  That  is  my  business 
and  yours.  Thanking  you  for  reading  this,  I  am, 
as  ever, 

"God's  humble  servant, 

"KATE  FULLERTON." 

"Why,  this  is  the  writing  of  the  Silent  Woman," 
I  said  before  I  had  read  the  letter  half  through. 

"Rovin'  Kate?" 

"Roving  Kate ;  I  never  knew  her  other  name,  but 
I  saw  her  handwriting  long  ago." 

"But  look — this  is  a  neatly  written,  well-worded 
letter  an*  the  sheet  is  as  white  and  clean  as  the  new 
snow.  Uncanny  woman !  They  say  she  carries  the 
power  o'  God  in  her  right  hand.  So  do  all  the 
wronged.  I  tell  ye,  lad,  there's  only  one  thing  in  the 
world  that's  sacred." 

I  turned  to  him  with  a  look  of  inquiry  and  asked  : 

"What  is  it?" 

"The  one  and  only  miracle  we  know — the  gate  o' 
birth  through  which  comes  human  life  and  the  lips 
commanding  our  love  and  speaking  the  wisdom  of 
childhood.  Show  me  how  a  man  treats  women  an' 
I'll  tell  ye  what  he  amounts  to.  There's  the  test  that 
shows  whether  he's  a  man  or  a  spaniel  dog." 


UNCLE  PEABODY'S  WAY  AND  MINE    311 

There  was  a  little  moment  of  silence  then — how 
well  I  remember  it!  The  schoolmaster  broke  the 
silence  by  adding : 

"Well  ye  know,  lad,  I  think  the  greatest  thing  that 
Jesus  Christ  did  was  showing  to  a  wicked  world  the 
sanctity  o'  motherhood." 

That,  I  think,  was  the  last  lesson  in  the  school 
year.  Just  beyond  us  I  could  see  the  slant  of  Bow 
man's  Hill.  What  an  amount  of  pains  they  gave 
those  days  to  the  building  of  character!  It  will 
seem  curious  and  perhaps  even  wearisome  now,  but 
it  must  show  here  if  I  am  to  hold  the  mirror  up  to 
the  time. 

"I  wonder  why  Kate  is  asking  about  me,"  I  said. 

"Never  mind  the  reason.  She  is  your  friend  and 
let  us  thank  God  for  it.  Think  how  she  came  to 
yer  help  in  the  old  barn  an'  say  a  thousand  prayers, 
my  lad.  I  shall  write  to  her  to-day,  and  what  shall 
I  say  as  to  the  work?" 

"Well,  I've  been  consulting  the  compass,"  I  an 
swered  thoughtfully,  as  I  looked  down  at  the  yield 
ing  sand  under  my  feet.  "I  think  that  I  want  to  be 
a  lawyer." 

"Good !  I  would  have  guessed  it.  I  suppose  your 
week  in  the  court  room  with  the  fine  old  judge  and 
the  lawyers  settled  that  for  ye." 

"I  think  that  it  did." 

"Well,  the  Senator  is  a  lawyer,  God  prosper  him, 


812  *  THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

an*  he  has  shown  us  that  the  chief  business  o'  the 
lawyer  is  to  keep  men  out  o'  the  law." 

Having  come  to  the  first  flight  of  the  uplands,  he 
left  me  with  many  a  kind  word — how  much  they 
mean  to  a  boy  who  is  choosing  his  way  with  a  grow 
ing  sense  of  loneliness ! 

I  reached  the  warm  welcome  of  our  little  home 
just  in  time  for  dinner.  They  were  expecting  me 
and  it  was  a  regular  company  dinner — chicken  pie 
and  strawberry  shortcake. 

"I  wallered  in  the  grass  all  the  forenoon  tryin'  to 
git  enough  berries  for  this  celebration — ayes ! — they 
ain't  many  of  'em  turned  yit,"  said  Aunt  Deel.  "No, 
sir — nothin'  but  pure  cream  on  this  cake.  I  ain't  a 
goin*  to  count  the  expense." 

Uncle  Peabody  danced  around  the  table  and  sang 
a  stanza  of  the  old  ballad,  which  I  have  forgotten, 
but  which  begins  : 

Come,  Philander,  let  us  be  a-marchin'. 

How  well  I  remember  that  hour  with  the  doors 
open  and  the  sun  shining  brightly  on  the  blossoming 
fields  and  the  joy  of  man  and  bird  and  beast  in  the 
return  of  summer  and  the  talk  about  the  late  visit  of 
Alma  Jones  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lincoln ! 

While  we  were  eating  I  told  them  about  the  letter 
of  old  Kate. 


UNCLE  PEABODY'S  WAY  AND  MINE    313 

"Fullerton !"  Aunt  Deel  exclaimed.  "Are  ye  sure 
that  was  the  name,  Bart  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Goodness  gracious  sakes  alive !" 

She  and  Uncle  Peabody  gave  each  other  looks  of 
surprised  inquiry. 

"Do  you  know  anybody  by  that  name?"  I  asked. 

"We  used  to,"  said  Aunt  Deel  as  she  resumed  her 
eating.  "Can't  be  she's  one  o'  the  Sam  Fullertons, 
can  it?" 

"Oh,  prob'ly  not,"  said  Uncle  Peabody.  "Back 
east  they's  more  Fullertons  than  ye  could  shake  a 
stick  at.  Say,  I  see  the  biggest  bear  this  mornin' 
that  I  ever  see  in  all  the  born  days  o'  my  life. 

"It  was  dark.  I'd  come  out  o'  the  fifty-mile 
woods  an'  down  along  the  edge  o'  the  ma'sh  an'  up 
into  the  bushes  on  the  lower  side  o'  the  pastur.  All 
to  once  I  heerd  somethin'!  I  stopped  an'  peeked 
through  the  bushes — couldn't  see  much — so  dark. 
Then  the  ol'  bear  riz  up  on  her  hind  legs  clus  to  me. 
We  didn't  like  the  looks  o'  one  'nother  an'  begun  to 
edge  off  very  careful. 

"Seems  so  I  kind  o'  said  to  the  ol'  bear:  'Ex 
cuse  me.' 

"Seems  so  the  ol'  bear  kind  o'  answered:  'Sar- 
t'nly.' 

"I  got  down  to  a  little  run,  near  by,  steppin'  as 
soft  as  a  cat.  I  could  just  see  a  white  stun  on  the 


31 4      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

side  o'  it.  I  lifted  my  foot  to  step  on  the  stun  an' 
jump  acrost.  B-r-r-r-r!  The  stun  jumped  up  an' 
scampered  through  the  bushes.  Then  I  was  scairt. 
Goshtalmighty !  I  lost  confidence  in  everything. 
Seemed  so  all  the  bushes  turned  into  bears.  Jeeru- 
salem,  how  I  run !  When  I  got  to  the  barn  I  was 
purty  nigh  used  up." 

"How  did  it  happen  that  the  stone  jumped?"  I 
asked. 

"Oh,  I  guess  't  was  a  rabbit,"  said  Uncle  Peabody. 

Thus  Uncle  Peabody  led  us  off  into  the  trail  of 
the  bear  and  the  problem  of  Kate  and  the  Sam  Ful- 
lertons  concerned  us  no  more  at  that  time. 

A  week  later  we  had  our  raising.  Uncle  Peabody 
did  not  want  a  public  raising,  but  Aunt  Deel  had 
had  her  way.  We  had  hewed  and  mortised  and 
bored  the  timbers  for  our  new  home.  The  neigh 
bors  came  with  pikes  and  helped  to  raise  and  stay 
and  cover  them.  A  great  amount  of  human  kind 
ness  went  into  the  beams  and  rafters  of  that  home 
and  of  others  like  it.  I  knew  that  The  Thing  was 
still  alive  in  the  neighborhood,  but  even  that  could 
not  paralyze  the  helpful  hands  of  those  people.  In 
deed,  what  was  said  of  my  Uncle  Peabody  was  noth 
ing  more  or  less  than  a  kind  of  conversational  fire 
wood.  I  can  not  think  that  any  one  really  believed  it. 

We  had  a  cheerful  day.  A  barrel  of  hard  cider 
had  been  set  up  in  the  dooryard,  and  I  remember 


UNCLE  PEABODY'S  WAY  AND  MINE    315 

that  some  drank  it  too  freely.  The  he-o-hee  of  the 
men  as  they  lifted  on  the  pikes  and  the  sound  of  the 
hammer  and  beetle  rang  in  the  air  from  morning 
until  night.  Mrs.  Rodney  Barnes  and  Mrs.  Dorothy 
came  to  help  Aunt  Deel  with  the  cooking  and  a 
great  dinner  was  served  on  an  improvised  table  in 
the  dooryard,  where  the  stove  was  set  up.  The 
shingles  and  sheathes  and  clapboards  were  on  before 
the  day  ended. 

When  they  were  about  to  go  the  men  filled  their 
cups  and  drank  to  Aunt  Deel. 

I  knew,  or  thought  I  knew,  why  they  had  not 
mentioned  my  Uncle  Peabody,  and  was  very 
thoughtful  about  it.  Suddenly  the  giant  Rodney 
Barnes  strode  up  to  the  barrel.  I  remember  the  lion- 
like  dignity  of  his  face  as  he  turned  and  said : 

"Now,  boys,  come  up  here  an'  stand  right  before 
me,  every  one  o'  you/' 

He  ranged  them  in  a  circle  around  the  barrel.  He 
stood  at  the  spigot  and  filled  every  cup.  Then  he 
raised  his  own  and  said : 

"I  want  ye  to  drink  to  Peabody  Baynes — one  o' 
the  squarest  men  that  ever  stood  in  cowhide." 

They  drank  the  toast — not  one  of  them  would 
have  dared  refuse. 

"Now  three  cheers  for  the  new  home  and  every 
one  that  lives  in  it,"  he  demanded. 

They  cheered  lustily  and  went  away. 


316      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

Uncle  Peabody  and  I  put  in  the  floors  and  stair 
way  and  partitions.  More  than  once  in  the  days  we 
were  working  together  I  tried  to  tell  him  what  Sally 
had  told  me,  but  my  courage  failed. 

We  moved  our  furniture.  I  remember  that  Uncle 
Peabody  called  it  "the  houseltree."  We  had  greased 
paper  on  the  windows  for  a  time  after  we  moved 
until  the  sash  came.  Aunt  Deel  had  made  rag  car 
pets  for  the  parlor  and  the  bedroom  which  opened 
off  it.  Our  windows  looked  down  into  the  great 
valley  of  the  St.  Lawrence,  stretching  northward 
thirty  miles  or  more  from  our  hilltop.  A  beautiful 
grove  of  sugar  maples  stood  within  a  stone's  throw 
of  the  back  door. 

What  a  rustic  charm  in  the  long  slant  of  the  green 
hill  below  us  with  its  gray,  mossy  boulders  and 
lovely  thorn  trees !  It  was,  I  think,  a  brighter,  pleas- 
anter  home  than  that  we  had  left.  It  was  built  on 
the  cellar  of  one  burned  a  few  years  before.  The 
old  barn  was  still  there  and  a  little  repairing  had 
made  it  do. 

The  day  came,  shortly,  when  I  had  to  speak  out, 
and  I  took  the  straight  way  of  my  duty  as  the  needle 
of  the  compass  pointed.  It  was  the  end  of  a  summer 
day  and  we  had  watched  the  dusk  fill  the  valley  and 
come  creeping  up  the  slant,  sinking  the  boulders  and 
thorn  tops  in  its  flood,  one  by  one.  As  we  sat  look 
ing  out  of  the  open  door  that  evening  I  told  them 


UNCLE  PEABODY'S  WAY  AND  MINE    317 

what  Sally  had  told  me  of  the  evil  report  which  had 
traveled  through  the  two  towns.  Uncle  Peabody 
sat  silent  and  perfectly  motionless  for  a  moment, 
looking  out  into  the  dusk. 

"W'y,  of  all  things!  Ain't  that  an  awful  burn- 
in*  shame — ayes !"  said  Aunt  Deel  as  she  covered 
her  face  with  her  hand. 

"Damn,  little  souled,  narrer  contracted — "  Uncle 
Pcabody,  speaking  in  a  low,  sad  tone,  but  with  deep 
feeling,  cut  off  this  highly  promising  opinion  before 
it  was  half  expressed,  and  rose  and  went  to  the 
water  pail  and  drank. 

"As  long  as  we're  honest  we  don't  care  what  they 
say,"  he  remarked  as  he  returned  to  his  chair. 

"If  they  won't  believe  us  we  ought  to  show  'em 
the  papers — ayes,"  said  Aunt  Deel. 

"Thunder  an'  Jehu!  I  wouldn't  go  'round  the 
town  tryin'  to  prove  that  I  ain't  a  thief,"  said  Uncle 
Peabody.  "It  wouldn't  make  no  differ'nce.  They've 
got  to  have  somethin'  to  play  with.  If  they  want  to 
use  my  name  for  a  bean  bag  let  'em  as  long  as  they 
do  it  when  I  ain't  lookin'.  I  wouldn't  wonder  if 
they  got  sore  hands  by  an'  by." 

I  never  heard  him  speak  of  it  again.  Indeed, 
although  I  knew  the  topic  was  often  in  our  thoughts 
it  was  never  mentioned  in  our  home  but  once  after 
that,  to  my  knowledge. 

We  sat  for  a  long  time  thinking  as  the  night 


318      THE  L'IGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

came  on.     By  and  by  Uncle  Peabody  began  the 
hymn  in  which  we  joined : 

"Oh,  keep  my  heart  from  sadness,  God ; 

Let  not  its  sorrows  stay, 

Nor  shadows  of  the  night  erase 

The  glories  of  the  day." 

"Say — by  thunder! — we  don't  have  to  set  in  the 
shadows.  Le's  fill  the  room  with  the  glory  of  the 
day,"  said  Uncle  Peabody  as  he  lighted  the  candles. 
"It  ain't  a  good  idee  to  go  slidin'  down  hill  in  the 
summer-time  an'  in  the  dark,  too.  Le's  have  a  game 
o'  cards." 

I  remember  that  we  had  three  merry  games  and 
went  to  bed.  All  outward  signs  of  our  trouble  had 
vanished  in  the  glow  of  the  candles. 

Next  day  I  rode  to  the  post-office  and  found  there 
a  book  addressed  to  me  in  the  handwriting  of  old 
Kate.  It  was  David  Hoffman's  Course  of  Legal 
Study.  She  had  written  on  its  fly-leaf : 

"To  Barton  Baynes,  from  a  friend." 

"That  woman  'pears  to  like  you  purty  thorough," 
said  Uncle  Peabody. 

"Well,  let  her  if  she  wants  to — poor  thing!"  Aunt 
Deel  answered.  "A  woman  has  got  to  have  some 
body  to  like — ayes ! — or  I  dunno  how  she'd  live — I 
declare  I  don't— ayes !" 


UNCLE  PEABODY'S  WAY  AND  MINE    319 

"I  like  her,  too,"  I  said.  "She's  been  a  good 
friend  to  me." 

"She  has,  sart'n,"  my  uncle  agreed. 

We  began  reading  the  book  that  evening  in  the 
candle-light  and  soon  finished  it.  I  was  thrilled  by 
the  ideal  of  human  service  with  which  the  calling  of 
the  lawyer  was  therein  lifted  up  and  illuminated. 
After  that  I  had  no  doubt  of  my  way. 

That  week  a  letter  came  to  me  from  the  Senator, 
announcing  the  day  of  Mrs.  Wright's  arrival  in 
Canton  and  asking  me  to  meet  and  assist  her  in  get 
ting  the  house  to  rights.  I  did  so.  She  was  a  pleas 
ant-faced,  amiable  woman  and  a  most  enterprising 
house  cleaner.  I  remember  that  my  first  task  was 
mending  the  wheelbarrow. 

"I  don't  know  what  Silas  would  do  if  he  were  to 
get  home  and  find  his  wheelbarrow  broken,"  said 
she.  "It  is  almost  an  inseparable  companion  of  his." 

The  schoolmaster  and  his  family  were  fishing  and 
camping  upon  the  river,  and  so  I  lived  at  the  Sen 
ator's  house  with  Mrs.  Wright  and  her  mother  until 
he  arrived.  What  a  wonderful  house  it  was,  in  my 
view !  I  was  awed  by  its  size  and  splendor,  its  soft 
carpets  and  shiny  brass  and  mahogany.  Yet  it  was 
very  simple. 

I  hoed  the  garden  and  cleaned  its  paths  and 
mowed  the  dooryard  and  djd  spine  paiating  in  the 
house.  I  remember  that  Mrs.  Ebejieger  Binks — • 


320       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

wife  of  the  deacon  and  the  constable — came  in  while 
I  was  at  the  latter  task  early  one  morning  to  see  if 
there  were  anything  she  could  do. 

She  immediately  sat  down  and  talked  constantly 
until  noon  of  her  family  and  especially  of  the  heart- 
lessness  and  general  misconduct  of  her  son  and 
daughter-in-law  because  they  had  refused  to  let 
her  apply  the  name  of  Divine  Submission  to  the 
baby.  It  had  been  a  hard  blow  to  Mrs.  Binks,  be 
cause  this  was  the  one  and  only  favor  which  she  had 
ever  asked  of  them.  She  reviewed  the  history  of 
the  Binkses  from  Ebenezer — the  First — down  to 
that  present  day.  There  had  been  three  Divine  Sub 
missions  in  the  family  and  they  had  made  the  name 
of  Binks  known  wherever  people  knew  anything. 
When  Mrs.  Wright  left  the  room  Mrs.  Binks  di 
rected  her  conversation  at  me,  and  when  Mrs. 
Wright  returned  I  only  got  the  spray  of  it.  By 
dinner  time  we  were  drenched  in  a  way  of  speaking 
and  Mrs.  Binks  left,  assuring  us  that  she  would  re 
turn  later  and  do  anything  in  her  power. 

"My  stars!"  Mrs.  Wright  exclaimed.  "If  you 
see  her  coming  lock  the  door  and  go  and  hide  in  a 
closet  until  she  goes  away.  Mrs.  Binks  always 
brings  her  ancestors  with  her  and  they  fill  the  house 
so  that  there's  no  room  for  anybody  else." 

When  the  day's  work  was  ended  Mrs.  Wright 
exclaimed : 


UNCLE  PEABODY'S  WAY  AND  MINE    321 

''Thank  goodness!  the  Binkses  have  not  re 
turned." 

We  always  referred  to  Mrs.  Binks  as  the  Binkses 
after  that. 

Mrs.  Jenison,  a  friend  of  the  Wrights,  came  in 
that  afternoon  and  told  us  of  the  visit  of  young 
Latour  to  Canton  and  of  the  great  relief  of  the  de 
cent  people  at  his  speedy  departure. 

"I  wonder  what  brought  him  here,"  said  Mrs. 
Wright. 

"It  seems  that  he  had  heard  of  the  beauty  of 
Sally  Dunkelberg.  But  a  bee  had  stung  her  nose 
just  before  he  came  and  she  was  a  sight  to  behold." 

The  ladies  laughed. 

"It's  lucky,"  said  Mrs.  Wright.  "Doesn't  Horace 
Dunkelberg  know  about  him  ?" 

"I  suppose  he  does,  but  the  man  is  money  crazy." 

I  couldn't  help  hearing  it,  for  I  was  working  in 
the  room  in  which  they  talked.  Well,  really,  it 
doesn't  matter  much  now.  They  are  all  gone. 

"Who  is  young  Latour?"  I  asked  when  Mrs.  Jeni 
son  had  left  us. 

"A  rake  and  dissolute  young  man  whose  father  is 
very  rich  and  lives  in  a  great  mansion  over  in  Jef 
ferson  County,"  Mrs.  Wright  answered. 

I  wondered  then  if  there  had  been  a  purpose  in 
that  drop  of  honey  from  the  cug  of  the  Silent 
Woman. 


322      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

I  remember  that  the  Senator,  who  returned  to 
Canton  that  evening  on  the  Watertown  stage, 
laughed  heartily  when,  as  we  were  sitting  by  the 
fireside,  Mrs.  Wright  told  of  the  call  of  the  Binkses. 

"The  good  lady  enjoys  a  singular  plurality,"  he 
remarked. 

"She  enjoys  it  better  than  we  do,"  said  Mrs. 
Wright. 

The  Senator  had  greeted  me  with  a  fatherly 
warmth.  Again  I  felt  that  strong  appeal  to  my  eye 
in  his  broadcloth  and  fine  linen  and  beaver  hat  and 
in  the  splendid  dignity  and  courtesy  of  his  manners. 

"I've  had  good  reports  of  you,  Bart,  and  I'm  very 
glad  to  see  you,"  he  said. 

"I  believe  your  own  marks  have  been  excellent  in 
the  last  year,"  I  ventured. 

"Poorer  than  I  could  wish.  The  teacher  has  been 
very  kind  to  me,"  he  laughed.  "What  have  you 
been  studying?" 

"Latin  (I  always  mentioned  the  Latin  first),  Al 
gebra,  Arithmetic,  Grammar,  Geography  and  His 
tory." 

"Including  the  history  of  the  Binkses,"  he 
laughed. 

There  was  never  a  note  of  humor  in  his  speeches, 
but  he  was  playful  in  his  talk  at  times,  especially 
when  trusted  friends  were  with  him. 


UNCLE  PEABODY'S  WAY  AND  MINE    323 

"She  is  a  very  excellent  woman,  after  all,"  he 
added. 

He  asked  about  my  aunt  and  uncle  and  I  told  him 
of  all  that  had  befallen  us,  save  the  one  thing  of 
which  I  had  spoken  only  with  them  and  Sally. 

"I  shall  go  up  to  see  them  soon,"  he  said. 

The  people  of  the  little  village  had  learned  that  he 
preferred  to  be  let  alone  when  he  had  just  returned 
over  the  long,  wearisome  way  from  the  scene  of  his 
labors.  So  we  had  the  evening  to  ourselves. 

I  remember  my  keen  interest  in  his  account  of 
riding  from  Albany  to  Utica  on  the  new  railroads. 
He  spoke  with  enthusiasm  of  the  smoothness  and 
swiftness  of  the  journey. 

"With  no  mishap  they  now  make  it  in  about  a 
half  a  day,"  he  said,  as  we  listened  with  wonder. 
"It  is  like  riding  in  a  house  with  a  good  deal  of 
smoke  coming  out  of  the  chimney  and  in  at  the  win 
dows.  You  sit  on  a  comfortable  bench  with  a  back 
and  a  foot-rest  in  front  and  look  out  of  the  window 
and  ride.  But  I  tremble  sometimes  to  think  of  what 
might  happen  with  all  that  weight  and  speed. 

"We  had  a  little  mishap  after  leaving  Ballston 
Spa.  The  locomotive  engine  broke  down  and  the 
train  stopped.  The  passengers  poured  out  like  bees. 
We  put  our  hands  and  shoulders  on  the  train  and 
pushed  it  backwards  about  a  third  of  a  mile  to  a 


324      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

passing  station.  There  the  engine  got  out  of  our 
way  and  after  an  hour's  wait  a  horse  was  hitched  to 
the  train.  With  the  help  of  the  men  he  started  it. 
At  the  next  town  our  horse  was  reinforced  by  two 
others.  They  hauled  us  to  the  engine  station  four 
miles  beyond,  where  another  locomotive  engine  was 
attached  to  the  train,  and  we  went  on  by  steam  and 
at  a  fearful  rate  of  speed." 

Mrs.  Wright,  being  weary  after  the  day's  work, 
went  to  bed  early  and,  at  his  request,  I  sat  with  the 
Senator  by  the  fire  for  an  hour  or  so.  I  have  always 
thought  it  a  lucky  circumstance,  for  he  asked  me  to 
tell  of  my  plans  and  gave  me  advice  and  encourage 
ment  which  have  had  a  marked  effect  upon  my 
career. 

I  remember  telling  him  that  I  wished  to  be  a 
lawyer  and  my  reasons  for  it.  He  told  me  that  a 
lawyer  was  either  a  pest  or  a  servant  of  justice  and 
that  his  chief  aim  should  be  the  promotion  of  peace 
and  good  will  in  his  community.  He  promised  to 
try  and  arrange  for  my  accommodation  in  his  office 
in  the  autumn  and  meanwhile  to  lend  me  some  books 
to  read  while  I  was  at  home. 

"Before  we  go  to  bed  let  us  have  a  settlement," 
said  the  Senator.  "Will  you  kindly  sit  down  at  the 
table  there  and  make  up  a  statement  of  all  the  time 
you  have  given  me?" 


UNCLE  PEABODY'S  WAY  AND  MINE    325 

I  made  out  the  statement  very  neatly  and  care 
fully  and  put  it  in  his  hands. 

"That  is  well  done,"  said  he.  "I  shall  wish  you 
to  stay  until  the  day  after  to-morrow,  if  you  will. 
So  you  wrill  please  add  another  day." 

I  amended  the  statement  and  he  paid  me  the  hand 
some  sum  of  seven  dollars.  I  remember  that  after 
I  went  to  my  room  that  night  I  stitched  up  the  open 
ing  in  my  jacket  pocket,  which  contained  my  wealth, 
with  the  needle  and  thread  which  Aunt  Deel  had  put 
in  my  bundle,  and  slept  with  the  jacket  under  my 
mattress. 

The  Senator  and  I  were  up  at  five  o'clock  and  at 
work  in  the  garden.  What  a  contrast  to  see  him 
spading  in  his  old  farm  suit !  Mrs.  Wright  cooked 
our  breakfast  and  called  us  in  at  six. 

I  remember  we  were  fixing  the  fence  around  his 
pasture  lot  that  day  when  a  handsomely  dressed 
gentleman  came  back  in  the  field.  Mr.  Wright  was 
chopping  at  a  small  spruce. 

"Is  Senator  Wright  here?"  the  stranger  inquired 
of  me. 

I  pointed  to  the  chopper. 

"I  beg  your  pardon — I  am  looking  for  the  distin 
guished  United  States  Senator,"  he  explained  with  a 
smile. 

Again  I  pointed  at  the  man  with  the  ax  and  said : 


326      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

"That  is  the  Senator." 

Often  I  have  thought  of  the  look  of  astonishment 
on  the  face  of  the  stranger  as  he  said:  "Will  you 
have  the  kindness  to  tell  him  that  General  Macomb 
would  like  to  speak  with  him  ?" 

I  halted  his  ax  and  conveyed  the  message. 

"Is  this  the  hero  of  Plattsburg?"  Mr.  Wright 
asked. 

"Well,  I  have  been  there,"  said  the  General. 

They  shook  hands  and  went  up  to  the  house  to 
gether. 

I  walked  back  to  the  hills  that  evening.  There  I 
found  a  letter  from  Sally.  She  and  her  mother, 
who  was  in  ill  health,  were  spending  the  summer 
with  relatives  at  Portsmouth,  New  Hampshire.  She 
wrote  of  riding  and  fishing  and  sailing,  but  of  all 
that  she  wrote  I  think  only  of  these  words  now : 

"I  meet  many  good-looking  boys  here,  but  none  of 
them  are  like  you.  I  wonder  if  you  remember  what 
you  said  to  me  that  day.  If  you  want  to  unsay  it, 
you  can  do  it  by  letter,  you  know.  I  think  that 
would  be  the  best  way  to  do  it.  So  don't  be  afraid 
of  hurting  my  feelings.  Perhaps  I  would  be  glad. 
You  don't  know.  What  a  long  day  that  was !  It 
seems  as  if  it  wasn't  over  yet.  How  lucky  for  me 
that  it  was  such  a  beautiful  day !  You  know  I  have 
forgotten  all  about  the  pain,  but  I  laugh  when  I 
think  how  I  looked  and  how  Mr.  Latour  looked.  He 
laughed  a  good  deal  going  home,  as  if  thinking  of 


UNCLE  PEABODY'S  WAY  AND  MINE    327 

some  wonderful  joke.  In  September  I  am  going 
away  to  a  young  ladies'  school  in  Albany.  I  hate  it. 
Can  you  imagine  why?  I  am  to  learn  fine  manners 
and  French  and  Spanish  and  dancing  and  be  good 
enough  for  any  man's  wife.  Think  of  that.  Father 
says  that  I  must  marry  a  big  man.  Jiminy  Crimps ! 
As  if  a  big  man  wouldn't  know  better.  I  am  often 
afraid  that  you  will  know  too  much.  I  know  what 
will  happen  when  your  intellect  sees  how  foolish  I 
am.  My  grandmother  says  that  I  am  frivolous  and 
far  from  God.  I  am  afraid  it's  true,  but  sometimes 
I  want  to  be  good — only  sometimes.  I  remember 
you  said,  once,  that  you  were  going  to  be  like  Silas 
Wright.  Honestly  I  believe  that  you  could.  So 
does  mother.  I  want  you  to  keep  trying,  but  it 
makes  me  afraid.  Oh,  dear!  How  sad  and  home 
sick  I  feel  to-day!  Tell  me  the  truth  now,  when 
you  write." 

That  evening  I  wrote  my  first  love-letter — a  fairly 
warm  and  moving  fragment  of  history.  My  family 
have  urged  me  to  let  it  go  in  the  record,  but  I  have 
firmly  refused.  There  are  some  things  which  I  can 
not  do  even  in  this  little  masquerade.  It  is  enough 
to  say  that  when  the  day  ended  I  had  deliberately 
chosen  two  of  the  many  ways  that  lay  before  me. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

I  USE  MY  OWN  COMPASS  AT  A  FORK  IN  THE  ROAD 

SWIFTLY  now  I  move  across  the  border  into 
manhood — a  serious,  eager,  restless  manhood. 
It  was  the  fashion  of  the  young  those  days. 

I  spent  a  summer  of  hard  work  in  the  fields. 
Evenings  I  read  the  books  which  Mr.  Wright  had 
loaned  to  me,  Blackstone's  Commentaries  and 
Greenleaf  on  Evidence  and  a  translation  by  Doctor 
Bowditch  of  LaPlace's  Mecanique  Celeste.  The  lat 
ter  I  read  aloud.  I  mention  it  because  in  a  way  it 
served  as  an  antidote  for  that  growing  sense  of  ex 
pansion  in  my  intellect.  In  the  vastness  of  infinite 
space  I  found  the  littleness  of  man  and  his  best  ac 
complishments. 

Mr.  Wright  came  up  for  a  day's  fishing  in  July. 
My  uncle  and  I  took  him  up  the  river.  I  remember 
that  after  he  had  landed  a  big  trout  he  sat  down  and 
held  the  fish  up  before  him  and  looked  proudly  at 
the  graceful,  glowing,  arrowy  shape. 

"I  never  did  anything  in  the  Senate  that  seemed 

328 


I  USE  MY  OWN  COMPASS  329 

half  so  important  as  this,"  he  remarked  thought 
fully. 

While  we  ate  our  luncheon  he  described  Jackson 
and  spoke  of  the  famous  cheese  which  he  had  kept 
on  a  table  in  the  vestibule  of  the  White  House  for 
his  callers.  He  described  his  fellow  senators — 
Webster,  Clay,  Rives,  Calhoun  and  Benton.  I  re 
member  that  Webster  was,  in  his  view,  the  least  of 
them,  although  at  his  best  the  greatest  orator.  We 
had  a  delightful  day,  and  when  I  drove  back  to  the 
village  with  him  that  night  he  told  me  that  I  could 
go  into  the  office  of  Wright  and  Baldwin  after  har 
vesting. 

"It  will  do  for  a  start/'  he  said.  "A  little  later  I 
shall  try  to  find  a  better  place  for  you." 

I  began  my  work  taking  only  the  studies  at  school 
which  would  qualify  me  for  surveying.  I  had  not 
been  in  Canton  a  week  when  I  received  a  rude  shock 
which  was  my  first  lesson  in  the  ungentle  art  of  poli 
tics.  Rodney  Barnes  and  Uncle  Peabody  were 
standing  with  me  in  front  of  a  store.  A  man  came 
out  with  Colonel  Hand  and  said  in  a  loud  voice  that 
Sile  Wright  was  a  spoilsman  and  a  drunkard — in 
politics  for  what  he  could  get  out  of  it. 

My  uncle  turned  toward  the  stranger  with  a  look 
of  amazement.  Rodney  Barnes  dropped  the  knife 
with  which  he  had  been  whittling.  I  felt  my  face 
turning  red. 


330       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

"What's  that,  mister?"  asked  Rodney  Barnes. 

The  stranger  repeated  his  statement  and  added 
that  he  could  prove  it. 

"Le's  see  ye,"  said  Barnes  as  he  approached  him. 

There  was  a  half  moment  of  silence. 

"Go  on  with  yer  proof,"  Rodney  insisted,  his 
great  right  hand  trembling  as  he  whittled. 

"There  are  plenty  of  men  in  Albany  that  know  the 
facts,"  said  the  stranger. 

"Any  other  proof  to  offer?" 

"That's  enough." 

"Oh,  I  see,  ye  can't  prove  it  to-day,  but  ye  don't 
mind  sayin'  it  to-day.  Say,  mister,  where  do  you 
live?" 

"None  o*  your  dam'  business." 

Swift  as  a  cat's  paw  the  big,  right  hand  of  Rodney 
caught  the  man  by  his  shoulder  and  threw  him 
down.  Seizing  him  by  the  collar  and  the  seat  of 
his  trousers  our  giant  friend  lifted  the  slanderer  and 
flung  him  to  the  roof  of  a  wooden  awning  in  front 
of  the  grocer's  shop  near  which  we  stood. 

"Now  you  stay  there  'til  I  git  cooled  off  or  you'll 
be  hurt,"  said  Rodney.  "You  better  be  out  o'  my 
reach  for  a  few  minutes." 

A  crowd  had  begun  to  gather. 

"I  want  you  all  to  take  a  look  at  that  man,"  Rod 
ney  shouted.  "He  says  Sile  Wright  is  a  drunkard 
an'  a  thief." 


I  USE  MY  OWN  COMPASS          331 

Loud  jeers  followed  the  statement,  then  a  volley 
of  oaths  and  a  moment  of  danger,  for  somebody 
shouted : 

"Le's  tar  an'  feather  him." 

"No,  we'll  just  look  at  him  a  few  minutes,"  Rod 
ney  Barnes  shouted.  "He's  one  o'  the  greatest  curi 
osities  that  ever  came  to  this  town." 

The  slanderer,  thoroughly  frightened,  stood  si 
lent  a  few  moments  like  a  prisoner  in  the  stocks. 
Soon  the  grocer  let  him  in  at  an  upper  window. 

Then  the  loud  voice  of  Rodney  Barnes  rang  like 
a  trumpet  in  the  words : 

"Any  man  who  says  a  mean  thing  of  another 
when  he  can't  prove  it  ought  to  be  treated  in  the 
same  way." 

"That's  so,"  a  number  of  voices  answered. 

The  slanderer  stayed  in  retirement  the  rest  of  the 
day  and  the  incident  passed  into  history,  not  without 
leaving  its  impression  on  the  people  of  the  two 
towns. 

My  life  went  on  with  little  in  it  worth  recording 
until  the  letter  came.  I  speak  of  it  as  "the  letter," 
because  of  its  effect  upon  my  career.  It  was  from 
Sally,  and  it  said : 

"DEAR  BART — It's  all  over  for  a  long  time,  per 
haps  forever — that  will  depend  on  you.  I  shall  be 
true  to  you,  if  you  really  love  me,  even  if  I  have  to 
wait  many,  many  years.  Mother  and  father  saw 


332       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

and  read  your  letter.  They  say  we  are  too  young  to 
be  thinking  about  love  and  that  we  have  got  to  stop 
it.  How  can  I  stop  it?  I  guess  I  would  have  to 
stop  living.  But  we  shall  have  to  depend  upon  our 
memories  now.  I  hope  that  yours  is  as  good  as 
mine.  Father  says  no  more  letters  without  his  per 
mission,  and  he  stamped  his  foot  so  hard  that  I 
think  he  must  have  made  a  dent  in  the  floor.  Talk 
about  slavery — what  do  you  think  of  that?  Mother 
says  that  we  must  wait — that  it  would  make  father 
a  great  deal  of  trouble  if  it  were  known  that  I  al 
lowed  you  to  write.  I  guess  the  soul  of  old  Grim- 
shaw  is  still  following  you.  Well,  we  must  stretch 
out  that  lovely  day  as  far  as  we  can.  Its  words  and 
its  sunshine  are  always  in  my  heart.  I  am  risking 
the  salvation  of  my  soul  in  writing  this.  But  I'd 
rather  burn  forever  than  not  tell  you  how  happy 
your  letter  made  me,  dear  Bart.  It  is  that  Grim- 
shaw  trouble  that  is  keeping  us  apart.  On  the 
third  of  June,  1844,  we  shall  both  be  twenty-one 
— and  I  suppose  that  we  can  do  as  we  please  then. 
The  day  is  a  long  way  off,  but  I  will  agree  to  meet 
you  that  day  at  eleven  in  the  morning  under  the  old 
pine  on  the  river  where  I  met  you  that  day  and  you 
told  me  that  you  loved  me.  If  either  or  both  should 
die  our  souls  will  know  where  to  find  each  other.  If 
you  will  solemnly  promise,  write  these  words  and 
only  these  to  my  mother — Amour  omnia  vincit,  but 
do  not  sign  your  name. 

"SALLY." 

What  a  serious  matter  it  seemed  to  me  then!    I 
remember  that  it  gave  Time  a  rather  slow  foot.    I 


I  USE  MY  OWN  COMPASS          333 

wrote  the  words  very  neatly  and  plainly  on  a  sheet 
of  paper  and  mailed  it  to  Mrs.  Dunkelberg.  I  won 
dered  if  Sally  would  stand  firm  and  longed  to  know 
the  secrets  of  the  future.  More  than  ever  I  was  re 
solved  to  be  the  principal  witness  in  some  great  mat 
ter,  as  my  friend  in  Ashery  Lane  had  put  it. 

I  was  eight  months  with  Wright  and  Baldwin 
when  I  was  offered  a  clerkship  in  the  office  of  Judge 
Westbrook,  at  Cobleskill,  in  Schoharie  County,  at 
two  hundred  a  year  and  my  board.  I  knew  not  then 
just  how  the  offer  had  come,  but  knew  that  the  Sen 
ator  must  have  recommended  me.  I  know  now  that 
he  wanted  a  reliable  witness  of  the  rent  troubles 
which  were  growing  acute  in  Schoharie,  Delaware 
and  Columbia  Counties. 

It  was  a  trial  to  go  so  far  from  home,  as  Aunt 
Deel  put  it,  but  both  my  aunt  and  uncle  agreed  that 
it  was  "for  the  best." 

"Mr.  Purvis"  had  come  to  work  for  my  uncle.  In 
the  midst  of  my  preparations  the  man  of  gristle  de 
cided  that  he  would  like  to  go  with  me  and  see  the 
world  and  try  his  fortune  in  another  part  of  the 
country. 

How  it  wrung  my  heart,  when  Mr.  Purvis  and  I 
got  into  the  stage  at  Canton,  to  see  my  aunt  and 
uncle  standing  by  the  front  wheel  looking  up  at  me. 
How  old  and  lonely  and  forlorn  they  looked !  Aunt 
Deel  had  her  purse  in  her  hand.  I  remember  how 


334       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

she  took  a  dollar  bill  out  of  it — I  suppose  it  was  the 
only  dollar  she  had — and  looked  at  it  a  moment  and 
then  handed  it  up  to  me. 

"You  better  take  it,"  she  said.  "I'm  'fraid  you 
won't  have  enough." 

How  her  hand  and  lips  trembled !  I  have  always 
kept  that  dollar. 

I  couldn't  see  them  as  we  drove  away. 

I  enjoyed  the  ride  and  the  taverns  and  the  talk  of 
the  passengers  and  the  steamboat  journey  through 
the  two  lakes  and  down  the  river,  but  behind  it  all 
was  a  dark  background.  The  shadows  of  my  be 
loved  friends  fell  every  day  upon  my  joys.  How 
ever,  I  would  be  nearer  Sally.  It  was  a  comfort 
when  we  were  in  Albany  to  reflect  that  she  was 
somewhere  in  that  noisy,  bewildering  spread  of 
streets  and  buildings.  I  walked  a  few  blocks  from 
the  landing,  taking  careful  note  of  my  way — men 
tally  blazing  a  trail  for  fear  of  getting  lost — and 
looked  wistfully  up  a  long  street.  There  were  many 
people,  but  no  Sally. 

The  judge  received  me  kindly  and  gave  Purvis 
a  job  in  his  garden.  I  was  able  to  take  his  dictation 
in  sound-hand  and  spent  most  of  my  time  in  taking 
down  contracts  and  correspondence  and  drafting 
them  into  proper  form,  which  I  had  the  knack  of 
doing  rather  neatly.  I  was  impressed  by  the  im 
mensity  of  certain  towns  in  the  neighborhood,  and 


I  USE  MY  OWN  COMPASS          335 

there  were  some  temptations  in  my  way.  Many  peo 
ple,  and  especially  the  prominent  men,  indulged  in 
ardent  spirits. 

One  of  my  young  friends  induced  me  to  go  to 
dinner  with  him  at  Van  Brocklin's,  the  fashionable 
restaurant  of  a  near  city.  We  had  a  bottle  of  wine 
and  some  adventures  and  I  was  sick  for  a  week 
after  it.  Every  day  of  that  week  I  attended  a  con 
vention  of  my  ancestors  and  received  much  good 
advice.  Toward  the  end  of  it  my  friend  came  to 
see  me. 

"There's  no  use  of  my  trying  to  be  a  gentleman," 
I  said.  "I  fear  that  another  effort  would  hang  my 
pelt  on  the  door.  It's  a  disgrace,  probably,  but  I've 
got  to  be  good.  I'm  driven  to  it." 

"The  way  I  look  at  it  is  this,"  said  he.  "We're 
young  fellows  and  making  a  good  deal  of  money 
and  we  can't  tell  when  we'll  die  and  leave  a  lot  that 
wre'll  never  get  any  good  of." 

It  was  a  down-country,  aristocratic  view  of  the 
responsibilities  of  youth  and  quite  new  to  me.  Calig 
ula  was  worried  in  a  like  manner,  I  believe.  We 
had  near  us  there  a  little  section  of  the  old  world 
which  was  trying,  in  a  half-hearted  fashion,  to 
maintain  itself  in  the  midst  of  a  democracy.  It  was 
the  manorial  life  of  the  patroons — a  relic  of  ancient 
feudalism  which  had  its  beginning  in  1629,  when 
The  West  Indies  Company  issued  its  charter  of 


336      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

Privileges  and  Exemptions.  That  charter  offered 
to  any  member  of  the  company  who  should,  within 
four  years,  bring  fifty  adults  to  the  New  Nether 
lands  and  establish  them  along  the  Hudson,  a  liberal 
grant  of  land,  to  be  called  a  manor,  of  which  the 
owner  or  patroon  should  be  full  proprietor  and  chief 
magistrate.  The  settlers  were  to  be  exempt  from 
taxation  for  ten  years,  but  under  bond  to  stay  in 
one  place  and  develop  it.  In  the  beginning  the 
patroon  built  houses  and  barns  and  furnished  cattle, 
seed  and  tools.  The  tenants  for  themselves  and 
their  heirs  agreed  to  pay  him  a  fixed  rent  forever  in 
stock  and  produce  and,  further,  to  grind  at  the 
owner's  mill  and  neither  to  hunt  nor  fish. 

Judge  Westbrook,  in  whose  office  I  worked,  was 
counsel  and  collector  for  the  patroons,  notably  for 
the  manors  of  Livingston  and  Van  Renssalaer — two 
little  kingdoms  in  the  heart  of  the  great  republic. 

I  spent  two  years  at  my  work  and  studied  in  the 
office  of  the  learned  judge  with  an  ever-present  but 
diminishing  sense  of  homesickness.  I  belonged  to 
the  bowling  and  athletic  club  and  had  many  friends. 

Mr.  Louis  Latour,  of  Jefferson  County,  whom  I 
had  met  in  the  company  of  Mr.  Dunkelberg,  came 
during  my  last  year  there  to  study  law  in  the  office 
of  the  judge,  a  privilege  for  which  he  was  indebted 
to  the  influence  of  Senator  Wright,  I  understood 


I  USE  MY  OWN  COMPASS          337 

He  was  a  gay  Lothario,  always  boasting  of  his  love 
affairs,  and  I  had  little  to  do  with  him. 

One  day  in  May  near  the  end  of  my  two  years  in 
Cobleskill  Judge  Westbrook  gave  me  two  writs  to 
serve  on  settlers  in  the  neighborhood  of  Baldwin 
Heights  for  non-payment  of  rent.  He  told  me  what 
I  knew,  that  there  was  bitter  feeling  against  the 
patroons  in  that  vicinity  and  that  I  might  encounter 
opposition  to  the  service  of  the  writs.  If  so  I  was 
not  to  press  the  matter,  but  bring  them  back  and  he 
would  give  them  to  the  sheriff. 

"I  do  not  insist  on  your  taking  this  task  upon 
you,"  he  added.  "I  want  a  man  of  tact  to  go  and 
talk  with  these  people  and  get  their  point  of  view. 
If  you  don't  care  to  undertake  it  I'll  send  another 


man." 


"I  think  that  I  would  enjoy  the  task,"  I  said  in 
ignorance  of  that  hornet's  nest  back  in  the  hills. 

"Take  Purvis  with  you,"  he  said.  "He  can  take 
care  of  the  horses,  and  as  those  back-country  folk 
are  a  little  lawless  it  will  be  just  as  well  to  have  a 
witness  with  you.  They  tell  me  that  Purvis  is  a 
man  of  nerve  and  vigor." 

Thus  very  deftly  and  without  alarming  me  he 
had  given  me  a  notion  of  the  delicate  nature  of  my 
task.  He  had  great  faith  in  me  those  days.  Well, 
I  had  had  remarkably  good  luck  with  every  matter 


338       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

he  had  put  into  my  hands.  He  used  to  say  that  I 
would  make  a  diplomat  and  playfully  called  me 
"Lord  Chesterfield" — perhaps  because  I  had  uncon 
sciously  acquired  a  dignity  and  courtesy  of  manner 
beyond  my  years  a  little. 

"Mr.  Purvis"  had  been  busy  building  up  a  con 
versational  reputation  for  fright  fulness  in  the  gar 
dens.  He  was  held  in  awe  by  a  number  of  the 
simple-minded  men  with  whom  he  worked.  For 
him  life  had  grown  very  pleasant  again — a  sweet, 
uninterrupted  dream  of  physical  power  and  fleeing 
enemies.  I  tremble  to  think  what  might  have  hap 
pened  if  his  strength  and  courage  had  equaled  his 
ambition.  I  smiled  when  the  judge  spoke  of  his 
nerve  and  vigor.  Still  I  was  glad  of  his  company, 
for  I  enjoyed  Purvis. 

I  had  drafted  my  letters  for  the  day  and  was 
about  to  close  my  desk  and  start  on  my  journey 
when  Louis  Latour  came  in  and  announced  that  he 
had  brought  the  writs  from  the  judge  and  was  go 
ing  with  me. 

"You  will  need  a  sheriff's  deputy  anyhow,  and  I 
have  been  appointed  for  just  this  kind  of  work," 
he  assured  me. 

"I  don't  object  to  your  going  but  you  must  re 
member  that  I  am  in  command,"  I  said,  a  little 
taken  back,  for  I  had  no  good  opinion  either  of 
his  prudence  or  his  company. 


I  USE  MY  OWN  COMPASS          339 

He  was  four  years  older  than  I  but  I  had  better 
judgment,  poor  as  it  was,  and  our  chief  knew  it. 

"The  judge  told  me  that  I  could  go  but  that  I 
should  be  under  your  orders,"  he  answered.  "I'm 
not  going  to  be  a  fool.  I'm  trying  to  establish  a  rep 
utation  for  good  sense  myself." 

We  got  our  dinners  and  set  out  soon  after  one 
o'clock.  Louis  wore  a  green  velvet  riding  coat  and 
handsome  top  boots  and  snug-fitting,  gray  trousers. 
He  was  a  gallant  figure  on  the  high-headed  chestnut 
mare  which  his  father  had  sent  to  him.  Purvis  and 
I,  in  our  working  suits,  were  like  a  pair  of  orderlies 
following  a  general.  We  rode  two  of  the  best  sad 
dle  horses  in  the  judge's  stable  and  there  were  no 
better  in  that  region. 

I  had  read  the  deeds  of  the  men  we  were  to  visit. 
They  were  brothers  and  lived  on  adjoining  farms 
with  leases  which  covered  three  hundred  and  fifty 
acres  of  land.  Their  great-grandfather  had  agreed 
to  pay  a  yearly  rent  forever  of  sixty-two  bushels 
of  good,  sweet,  merchantable,  winter  wheat,  eight 
yearling  cattle  and  four  sheep  in  good  flesh  and  six 
teen  fat  hens,  all  to  be  delivered  in  the  city  of  Al 
bany  on  the  first  day  of  January  of  each  year.  So, 
feeling  that  I  was  engaged  in  a  just  cause,  I  bravely 
determined  to  serve  the  writs  if  possible. 

It  was  a  delightful  ride  up  into  the  highlands 
through  woods  just  turning  green.  Full  flowing 


340       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

noisy  brooks  cut  the  road  here  and  there  on  their 
way  to  the  great  river.  Latour  rode  along  beside 
me  for  a  few  miles  and  began  to  tell  of  his  senti 
mental  adventures  and  conquests.  His  talk  showed 
that  he  had  the  heart  of  a  stone.  It  made  me  hate 
him  and  the  more  because  he  had  told  of  meeting 
Sally  on  the  street  in  Albany  and  that  he  was  in 
love  with  her.  It  was  while  he  was  telling  me  how 
he  had  once  fooled  a  country  girl  that  I  balked.  He 
thought  it  a  fine  joke,  for  his  father  had  cut  his  al 
lowance  two  hundred  a  year  so  that  the  sum  they 
had  had  to  pay  in  damages  had  kept  his  nose  "on  the 
grindstone"  for  two  years.  Then  I  stopped  my 
horse  with  an  exclamation  which  would  have  aston 
ished  Lord  Chesterfield,  I  am  sure. 

The  young  man  drew  rein  and  asked : 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"Only  this.  I  shall  have  to  try  to  lick  you  before 
;we  go  any  further." 

"How's  that?" 

I  dismounted  and  tightened  the  girth  of  my  sad 
dle.  My  spirit  was  taking  swift  counsel  with  itself 
at  the  brink  of  the  precipice.  It  was  then  that  I 
seemed  to  see  the  angry  face  of  old  Kate — the  Silent 
Woman — at  my  elbow,  and  it  counseled  me  to  speak 
out.  Again  her  spirit  was  leading  me.  Calmly  and 
slowly  these  words  came  from  my  lips : 


I  USE  MY  OWN  COMPASS          341 

"Because  I  think  you  are  a  low-lived,  dirty-souled 
dog  of  a  man  and  if  you  can  stand  that  without 
fighting  you  are  a  coward  to  boot." 

This  was  not  the  language  of  diplomacy  but  at 
the  time  it  seemed  to  me  rather  kind  and  flattering. 

La  tour  flashed  red  and  jumped  off  his  horse  and 
struck  at  me  with  his  crop.  I  caught  it  in  my  hand 
and  said: 

"Hold  on.  Let's  proceed  decently  and  in  order. 
Purvis,  you  hold  these  horses  while  we  fight  it  out." 

Purvis  caught  Latour's  horse  and  brought  the 
others  close  to  mine  and  gathered  the  reins  in  his 
hand.  I  shall  never  forget  how  pale  he  looked  and 
how  fast  he  was  breathing  and  how  his  hands  trem 
bled. 

I  jumped  off  and  ran  for  my  man.  He  faced  me 
bravely.  I  landed  a  stunning  blow  squarely  on  his 
nose  and  he  fell  to  the  ground.  Long  before, 
Hacket  had  told  me  that  a  swift  attack  was  half 
the  battle  and  I  have  found  it  so  more  than  once, 
for  I  have  never  been  slow  to  fight  for  a  woman's 
honor  or  a  friend's  or  my  own — never,  thank  God ! 
Latour  lay  so  quietly  for  a  moment  that  I  was 
frightened.  His  face  was  covered  with  blood.  He 
came  to  and  I  helped  him  up  and  he  rushed  at  me 
like  a  tiger.  I  remember  that  we  had  a  long  round 
then  with  our  fists.  I  knew  how  to  take  care  of  my 


342      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

face  and  stomach  and  that  I  did  while  he  wore  him 
self  out  in  wild  blows  and  desperate  lunges. 

We  had  dismounted  near  the  end  of  a  bridge. 
He  fought  me  to  the  middle  of  it  and  when  his  speed 
slackened  I  took  the  offensive  and  with  such  energy 
that  he  clinched.  I  threw  him  on  the  planks  and 
we  went  down  together,  he  under  me,  in  a  fall  so 
violent  that  it  shook  the  bridge  and  knocked  the 
breath  out  of  him.  This  seemed  to  convince  Latour 
that  I  was  his  master.  His  distress  passed  quickly 
and  he  got  up  and  began  brushing  the  dust  from 
his  pretty  riding  coat  and  trousers.  I  saw  that 
he  was  winded  and  in  no  condition  to  resume  the 
contest. 

I  felt  as  fresh  as  if  I  had  mowed  only  once  around 
the  field,  to  quote  a  saying  of  my  uncle. 

"We'll  have  to  fight  it  out  some  other  day,"  he 
said.  "I'm  weak  from  the  loss  of  blood.  My  nose 
feels  as  if  it  was  turned  wrong  side  out." 

"It  ought  to  be  used  to  the  grindstone  after  two 
years  of  practise,"  I  remarked.  "Come  down  to  the 
brook  and  let  me  wash  the  blood  off  you." 

Without  a  word  he  followed  me  and  I  washed  his 
face  as  gently  as  I  could  and  did  my  best  to  clean  his 
shirt  and  waistcoat  with  my  handkerchief.  His  nose 
v/as  badly  swollen. 

"Latour,  women  have  been  good  to  me,"  I  said. 
"I've  been  taught  to  think  that  a  man  who  treats 
them  badly  is  the  basest  of  all  men.  I  can't  help  it. 


I  USE  MY  OWN  COMPASS          343 

The  feeling  has  gone  into  my  bones.  I'll  fight  you 
as  often  as  I  hear  you  talk  as  you  did." 

He  reeled  with  weakness  as  he  started  toward 
his  horse.  I  helped  him  into  the  saddle. 

"I  guess  I'm  not  as  bad  as  I  talk,"  he  remarked. 

If  it  were  so  he  must  have  revised  his  view  of 
that  distinction  which  he  had  been  lying  to  achieve. 
It  was  a  curious  type  of  vanity  quite  new  to  me  then. 

Young  Mr.  Latour  fell  behind  me  as  we  rode  on. 
The  silence  was  broken  presently  by  "Mr.  Purvis," 
who  said : 

"You  can  hit  like  the  hind  leg  of  a  horse.  I  never 
see.  more  speed  an'  gristle  in  a  feller  o'  your  age." 

"Nobody  could  swing  the  scythe  and  the  ax  as 
much  as  I  have  without  getting  some  gristle,  and  the 
schoolmaster  taught  me  how  to  use  it,"  I  answered. 
"But  there's  one  thing  that  no  man  ought  to  be  con 
ceited  about." 

"What's  that?" 

"His  own  gristle.  I  remember  Mr.  Hacket  told 
me  once  that  the  worst  kind  of  a  fool  was  the  man 
who  was  conceited  over  his  fighting  power  and  liked 
to  talk  about  it.  If  I  ever  get  that  way  I  hope  that 
I  shall  have  it  licked  out  of  me." 

"I  never  git  conceited — not  that  I  ain't  some  rea 
son  to  be,"  said  Mr.  Purvis  with  a  highly  serious 
countenance.  He  seemed  to  have  been  blind  to  that 
disparity  between  his  acts  and  sayings  which  had 
distinguished  him  in  Lickitysplit. 


844i       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

I  turned  my  head  away  to  hide  my  smiles  and  we 
rode  on  in  silence. 

"I  guess  I've  got  somethin'  here  that  is  cocollated 
to  please  ye,"  he  said. 

He  took  a  letter  from  his  pocket  and  gave  it  to 
me.  My  heart  beat  faster  when  I  observed  that  the 
superscription  on  the  envelope  was  in  Sally's  hand 
writing.  The  letter,  which  bore  neither  signature 
nor  date  line,  contained  these  words: 

"Will  you  please  show  this  to  Mr.  Barton  Baynes  ? 
I  hope  it  will  convince  him  that  there  is  one  who  still 
thinks  of  the  days  of  the  past  and  of  the  days  that 
are  coming — especially  one  day." 

Tears  dimmed  my  eyes  as  I  read  and  re-read  the 
message.  More  than  two  of  those  four  years  had 
passed  and,  as  the  weeks  had  dragged  along  I 
had  thought  more  and  more  of  Sally  and  the  day 
that  was  coming.  I  had  bought  a  suit  of  evening 
clothes  and  learned  to  dance  and  gone  out  to  parties 
and  met  many  beautiful  young  ladies  but  none  of 
them  had  the  charm  of  Sally.  The  memory  of 
youth — true-hearted,  romantic,  wonder-working 
youth — had  enthroned  her  in  its  golden  castle  and 
was  defending  her  against  the  present  common 
place  herd  of  mere  human  beings.  No  one  of  them 
had  played  with  me  in  the  old  garden  or  stood  by  the 
;wheat-field  with  flying  hair,  as  yellow  as  the  grain, 


I  USE  MY  OWN  COMPASS          345 

and  delighted  me  with  the  sweetest  words  ever 
spoken.  No  one  of  them  had  been  glorified  with 
the  light  and  color  of  a  thousand  dreams. 

I  rode  in  silence,  thinking  of  her  and  of  those 
beautiful  days  now  receding  into  the  past  and  of  my 
aunt  and  uncle.  I  had  written  a  letter  to  them  every 
week  and  one  or  the  other  had  answered  it.  Be 
tween  the  lines  I  had  detected  the  note  of  loneliness. 
They  had  told  me  the  small  news  of  the  countryside. 
How  narrow  and  monotonous  it  all  seemed  to  me 
then !  Rodney  Barnes  had  bought  a  new  farm ;  John 
Axtell  had  been*  hurt  in  a  runaway ;  my  white  mare 
had  got  a  spavin ! 

"Hello,  mister !" 

I  started  out  of  my  reverie  with  a  little  jump  of 
surprise.  A  big,  rough-dressed,  bearded  man  stood 
in  the  middle  of  the  road  writh  a  gun  on  his  shoul 
der. 

"Where  ye  goin'?" 

"Up  to  the  Van  Heusen  place." 

"Where  do  ye  hail  from?" 

"Cobleskill." 

"On  business  for  Judge  Westbrook?" 

"Yes." 

"Writs  to  serve?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered  with  no  thought  of  my  im 
prudence. 


346       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

"Say,  young  man,  by  hokey  nettle !  I  advise  you 
to  turn  right  around  and  go  back." 

"Why?" 

'*  'Cause  if  ye  try  to  serve  any  writs  ye'll  git  into 
trouble." 

"That's  interesting,"  I  answered.  "I  am  not  seek 
ing  a  quarrel,  but  I  do  want  to  see  how  the  people 
feel  about  the  payment  of  their  rents." 

"Say  mister,  look  down  into  that  valley  there," 
the  stranger  began.  "See  all  them  houses — they're 
the  little  houses  o'  the  poor.  See  how  smooth  the 
land  is  ?  Who  built  them  houses  ?  Who  cleaned  that 
land?  Was  it  Mr.  Livingston?  By  hokey  net- 
tie  !  I  guess  not.  The  men  who  live  there  built  the 
houses  an'  cleaned  the  land.  We  ain't  got  nothin' 
else — not  a  dollar !  It's  all  gone  to  the  landlord.  I 
am  for  the  men  who  made  every  rod  o'  that  land  an' 
who  own  not  a  single  rod  of  it.  Years  an'  years  ago 
a  king  gave  it  to  a  man  who  never  cut  one  tree  or 
laid  one  stone  on  another.  The  deeds  say  that  we 
must  pay  a  rent  o'  so  many  bushels  o'  wheat  a  year 
but  the  land  is  no  good  for  wheat,  an'  ain't  been  for 
a  hundred  years. .  Why,  ye  see,  mister,  a  good  many 
things  have  happened  in  three  hundred  years.  The 
land  was  willin'  to  give  wheat  then  an'  a  good  many 
folks  was  willin'  to  be  slaves.  By  hokey  nettie !  they 
had  got  used  to  it.  Kings  an'  magistrates  an* 
slavery  didn't  look  so  bad  to  'em  as  they  do  now. 


I  USE  MY  OWN  COMPASS          347 

Our  brains  have  changed — that's  what's  the  matter 
— same  as  the  soil  has  changed.  We  want  to  be 
free  like  other  folks  in  this  country.  America  has 
growed  up  around  us  but  here  \ve  are  livin'  back  in 
old  Holland  three  hundred  years  ago.  It  don't  set 
good.  We  see  lots  o'  people  that  don't  have  to  be 
slaves.  They  own  their  land  an'  they  ain't  worked 
any  harder  than  we  have  or  been  any  more  savin'. 
That's  why  I  say  we  can't  pay  the  rents  no  more 
an*  ye  mustn't  try  to  make  us.  By  hokey  nettie! 
You'll  have  trouble  if  ye  do." 

The  truth  had  flashed  upon  me  out  of  the  words 
of  this  simple  man.  Until  then  I  had  heard  only  one 
side  of  the  case.  If  I  were  to  be  the  servant  of  jus 
tice,  as  Mr.  Wright  had  advised,  what  was  I  to  do  ? 
These  tenants  had  been  Grimshawed  and  were  being 
Grimshawed  out  of  the  just  fruits  of  their  toil  by 
the  feudal  chief  whose  remote  ancestor  had  been  a 
king's  favorite.  For  half  a  moment  I  watched  the 
wavering  needle  of  my  compass  and  then : 

"If  what  you  say  is  true  I  think  you  are  right,"  I 
said. 

"I  don't  agree  with  you,"  said  young  Latour. 
"The  patroons  have  a  clear  title  to  this  land.  If  the 
tenants  don't  want  to  pay  the  rents  they  ought  to 
get  out  and  make  way  for  others." 

"Look  here,  young  man,  my  name  is  Josiah  Cur 
tis,"  said  the  stranger.  "I  live  in  the  first  house  on 


348      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

the  right-hand  side  o'  the  road.  You  may  tell  the 
judge  that  I  won't  pay  rent  no  more — not  as  long  as 
I  live — and  I  won't  git  out,  either." 

"Mr.  Latour,  you  and  Purvis  may  go  on  slowly — • 
I'll  overtake  you  soon,"  I  said. 

They  went  on  and  left  me  alone  with  Curtis.  He 
was  getting  excited  and  I  wished  to  allay  his  fears. 

"Don't  let  him  try  to  serve  no  writs  or  there'll 
be  hell  to  pay  in  this  valley,"  said  Curtis. 

"In  that  case  I  shall  not  try  to  serve  the  writs.  I 
don't  want  to  stir  up  the  neighborhood,  but  I  want 
to  know  the  facts.  I  shall  try  to  see  other  tenants 
and  report  what  they  say,  It  may  lead  to  a  settle 
ment." 

We  went  on  together  to  the  top  of  the  hill  near 
which  we  had  been  standing.  Far  ahead  I  saw  a 
cloud  of  dust  but  no  other  sign  of  Latour  and  Purvis. 
They  must  have  spurred  their  horses  into  a  run. 
The  fear  came  to  me  that  Latour  would  try  to  serve 
the  writs  in  spite  of  me.  They  were  in  his  pocket. 
What  a  fool  I  had  been  not  to  call  for  them.  My 
companion  saw  ttte  look  of  concern  in  my  face. 

"I  don't  like  that  young  feller,"  said  Curtis.  "He's 
in  fer  trouble." 

He  ran  toward  his  house,  which  was  only  a  few 
rods  beyond  us,  while  I  started  on  in  pursuit  of  the 
two  men  at  top  speed.  Before  my  horse  had  taken 
a  dozen  jumps  I  heard  a  horn  blowing  behind  me 


I  USE  MY  OWN  COMPASS          349 

and  its  echo  in  the  hills.  Within  a  half  a  moment  a 
dozen  horns  were  sounding  in  the  valleys  around  me. 
What  a  contrast  to  the  quiet  in  which  we  had  been 
riding  was  this  pandemonium  which  had  broken 
loose  in  the  countryside.  A  little  ahead  I  could  see 
men  running  out  of  the  fields.  My  horse  had  be 
gun  to  lather,  for  the  sun  was  hot.  My  companions 
were  far  ahead.  I  could  not  see  the  dust  of  their 
heels  now.  I  gave  up  trying  to  catch  them  and 
checked  the  speed  of  my  horse  and  went  on  at  a 
walk.  The  horns  were  still  sounding.  Some  of 
them  seemed  to  be  miles  away.  About  twenty  rods 
ahead  I  saw  three  riders  in  strange  costumes  come 
out  of  a  dooryard  and  take  the  road  at  a  wild  gal 
lop  in  pursuit  of  Latour  and  Purvis.  They  had  not 
discovered  me.  I  kept  as  calm  as  I  could  in  the 
midst  of  this  excitement.  I  remember  laughing 
when  I  thought  of  the  mess  in  which  "Mr.  Purvis" 
would  shortly  find  himself. 

I  passed  the  house  from  which  the  three  riders 
had  just  turned  into  the  road.  A  number  of  women 
and  an  old  man  and  three  or  four  children  stood  on 
the  porch.  They  looked  at  me  in  silence  as  I  was 
passing  and  then  began  to  hiss  and  jeer.  It  gave 
me  a  feeling  I  have  never  known  since  that  day.  I 
jogged  along  over  the  brow  of  a  hill  when,  at  a 
white,  frame  house,  I  saw  the  center  toward  which 
all  the  men  of  the  countryside  were  coming. 


350       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

Suddenly  I  heard  the  hoof-beats  of  a  horse  behind 
me.  I  stopped,  and  looking  over  my  shoulder  saw 
a  rider  approaching  me  in  the  costume  of  an  Indian 
chief.  A  red  mask  covered  his  face.  A  crest  of 
eagle  feathers  circled  the  edge  of  his  cap.  Without 
a  word  he  rode  on  at  my  side.  I  knew  not  then  that 
he  was  the  man  Josiah  Curtis — nor  could  I  at  any 
time  have  sworn  that  it  was  he. 

A  crowd  had  assembled  around  the  house  ahead. 
I  could  see  a  string  of  horsemen  coming  toward  it 
from  the  other  side.  I  wondered  what  was  going 
to  happen  to  me.  What  a  shouting  and  jeering  in 
the  crowded  dooryard!  I  could  see  the  smoke  of  a 
fire.  We  reached  the  gate.  Men  in  Indian  masks 
and  costumes  gathered  around  us. 

"Order!  Sh-sh-sh,"  was  the  loud  command  of 
the  man  beside  me  in  whom  I  recognized — or 
thought  that  I  did — the  voice  of  Josiah  Curtis. 
"What  has  happened?" 

"One  o'  them  tried  to  serve  a  writ  an'  we  have 
tarred  an'  feathered  him." 

Just  then  I  heard  the  voice  of  Purvis  shouting 
back  in  the  crowd  this  impassioned  plea : 

"Bart,  for  God's  sake,  come  here." 

I  turned  to  Curtis  and  said: 

"If  the  gentleman  tried  to  serve  the  writ  he  acted 
without  orders  and  deserves  what  he  has  got.  The 
other  fellow  is  simply  a  hired  man  who  came  along 


I  USE  MY  OWN  COMPASS          351 

to  take  care  of  the  horses.  He  couldn't  tell  the  dif 
ference  between  a  writ  and  a  hole  in  the  ground." 

"Men,  you  have  gone  fur  enough,"  said  Curtis. 
"This  man  is  all  right.  Bring  the  other  men  here 
and  put  'em  on  their  horses  an'  I'll  escort  'em  out  o' 
the  town." 

They  brought  Latour  on  a  rail  amidst  roars  of 
laughter.  What  a  bear-like,  poultrified,  be-poodled 
object  he  was! — burred  and  sheathed  in  rumpled 
gray  feathers  from  his  hair  to  his  heels.  The  sight 
and  smell  of  him  scared  the  horses.  There  were 
tufts  of  feathers  over  his  ears  and  on  his  chin. 
They  had  found  great  joy  in  spoiling  that  aristo 
cratic  livery  in  which  he  had  arrived. 

Then  came  poor  Purvis.  They  had  just  begun  to 
apply  the  tar  and  feathers  to  him  when  Curtis  had 
stopped  the  process.  He  had  only  a  shaking  ruff 
of  long  feathers  around  his  neck.  They  lifted  the 
runaways  into  their  saddles.  Purvis  started  off  at 
a  gallop,  shouting  "Come  on,  Bart,"  but  they  stopped 
him. 

"Don't  be  in  a  hurry,  young  feller,"  said  one  of 
the  Indians,  and  then  there  was  another  roar  of 
laughter. 

"Go  back  to  yer  work  now,"  Curtis  shouted,  and 
turning  to  me  added :  "You  ride  along  with  me  and 
let  our  feathered  friends  follow  us." 

So  we  started  up  the  road  on  our  way  back  to 


852       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

Cobleskill.  Soon  Latour  began  to  complain  that  he 
was  hot  and  the  feathers  pricked  him. 

"You  come  alongside  me  here  an'  raise  up  a  lit 
tle  an'  I'll  pick  the  inside  o'  yer  legs  an'  pull  out  yer 
tail  feathers,"  said  Curtis.  "If  you  got  'em  stuck 
into  yer  skin  you'd  be  a  reg'lar  chicken  an'  no  mis 
take." 

I  helped  in  the  process  and  got  my  fingers  badly 
tarred. 

"This  is  a  dangerous  man  to  touch — his  soul  is 
tarred,"  said  Curtis.  "Keep  away  from  him." 

"What  a  lookin'  skunk  you  be !"  he  laughed  as  he 
went  on  with  the  picking. 

We  resumed  our  journey.  Our  guide  left  us  at 
the  town  line  some  three  miles  beyond. 

"Thank  God  the  danger  is  over,"  said  Purvis. 
"The  tar  on  my  neck  has  melted  an'  run  down  an' 
my  shirt  sticks  like  the  bark  on  a  tree.  I'm  sick 
o'  the  smell  o'  myself.  If  I  could  find  a  skunk  I'd 
enjoy  holdin'  him  in  my  lap  a  while.  I'm  goin* 
back  to  St.  Lawrence  County  about  as  straight  as 
I  can  go.  I  never  did  like  this  country  anyway." 

He  had  picked  the  feathers  out  of  his  neck  and 
Latour  was  now  busy  picking  his  arms  and  shoul 
ders.  Presently  he  took  off  his  feathered  coat  and 
threw  it  away,  saying : 

"They'll  have  to  pay  for  this.  Every  one  o'  those 
jackrabbits  will  have  to  settle  with  me." 


I  USE  MY  OWN  COMPASS          358 

"You  brought  it  on  yourself,"  I  said.  "You  ran 
away  from  me  and  got  us  all  into  trouble  by  being 
too  smart.  You  tried  to  be  a  fool  and  succeeded  be 
yond  your  expectation.  My  testimony  wouldn't 
help  you  any." 

"You're  always  against  the  capitalist,"  he  an 
swered. 

It  was  dark  when  I  left  my  companions  in  Coble- 
skill.  I  changed  my  clothes  and  had  my  supper 
and  found  Judge  Westbrook  in  his  home  and  re 
ported  the  talk  of  Curtis  and  our  adventure  and  my 
view  of  the  situation  back  in  the  hills.  I  observed 
that  he  gave  the  latter  a  cold  welcome. 

"I  shall  send  the  sheriff  and  a  posse,"  he  said  with 
a  troubled  look. 

"Pardon  me,  but  I  think  it  will  make  a  bad  matter 
worse,"  I  answered. 

"We  must  not  forget  that  the  patroons  are  our 
clients,"  he  remarked. 

I  yielded  and  went  on  with  my  work.  In  the  next 
week  or  so  I  satisfied  myself  of  the  rectitude  of  my 
opinions.  Then  came  the  most  critical  point  in  my 
history — a  conflict  with  Thrift  and  Fear  on  one  side 
and  Conscienc^n-  the  other. 

The  judge  raised  my  salary.  I  wanted  the 
money,  but  every  day  I  would  have  to  lend  my  help, 
directly  or  indirectly,  to  the  prosecution  of  claims 
which  I  could  not  believe  to  be  just.  My  heart  went 


354       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

out  of  my  work.  I  began  to  fear  myself.  For  weeks 
I  had  not  the  courage  to  take  issue  with  the  learned 
judge. 

One  evening  I  went  to  his  home  determined  to 
put  an  end  to  my  unhappiness.  After  a  little  talk  I 
told  him  frankly  that  I  thought  the  patroons  should 
seek  a  friendly  settlement  with  their  tenants. 

"Why?"  he  asked. 

"Because  their  position  is  unjust,  un-American 
and  untenable,"  was  my  answer. 

He  rose  and  gave  me  his  hand  and  a  smile  of  for 
bearance  in  consideration  of  my  youth,  as  I  took  it. 

I  left  much  irritated  and  spent  a  sleepless  night  in 
the  course  of  which  I  decided  to  cling  to  the  ideals 
of  David  Hoffman  and  Silas  Wright. 

In  the  morning  I  resigned  my  place  and  asked  to 
be  relieved  as  soon  as  the  convenience  of  the  judge 
would  allow  it.  He  tried  to  keep  me  with  gentle 
persuasion  and  higher  pay,  but  I  was  firm.  Then  I 
wrote  a  long  letter  to  my  friend  the  Senator. 

Again  I  had  chosen  my  way  and  with  due  regard 
to  the  compass. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE   MAN    WITH    THE   SCYTHE 

IT  was  late  in  June  before  I  was  able  to  disen 
gage  myself  from  the  work  of  the  judge's  office. 
Meanwhile  there  had  been  blood  shed  back  in 
the  hills.  One  of  the  sheriff's  posse  had  been  se 
verely  wounded  by  a  bullet  and  had  failed  to  serve 
the  writs.  The  judge  had  appealed  to  the  governor. 
People  were  talking  of  "the  rent  war." 

Purvis  had  returned  to  St.  Lawrence  County  and 
hired  to  my  uncle  for  the  haying.  He  had  sent  me 
a  letter  which  contained  the  welcome  information 
that  the  day  he  left  the  stage  at  Canton,  he  had 
seen  Miss  Dunkelberg  on  the  street. 

"She  was  lookin'  top-notch — stop't  and  spoke  to 
me,"  he  went  on.  "You  cood  a  nocked  me  down 
with  a  fether  I  was  that  scairt.  She  ast  me  how  you 
was  an'  I  lookt  her  plum  in  the  eye  an*  I  says :  all 
grissul  from  his  head  to  his  heels,  mam,  an'  able  to 
lick  Lew  Latour,  which  I  seen  him  do  in  quick  time 
an'  tolable  severe.  He  can  fight  like  a  bob-tailed 
cat  when  he  gits  a-goin',  I  says." 

What  a  recommendation  to  the  sweet,  unsullied 

355 


356      THE  UIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

spirit  of  Sally !  Without  knowledge  of  my  provoca 
tion  what  would  she  think  of  me  ?  He  had  endowed 
me  with  all  the  fright  fulness  of  his  own  cherished 
ideal,  and  what  was  I  to  do  about  it  ?  Well,  I  was 
going  home  and  would  try  to  see  her. 

What  a  joy  entered  my  heart  when  I  was  aboard 
the  steamboat,  at  last,  and  on  my  way  to  all  most 
dear  to  me !  As  I  entered  Lake  Champlain  I  con 
sulted  the  map  and  decided  to  leave  the  boat  at 
Chimney  Point  to  find  Kate  Fullerton,  who  had 
written  to  the  schoolmaster  from  Canterbury.  My 
aunt  had  said  in  a  letter  that  old  Kate  was  living 
there  and  that  a  great  change  had  come  over  her. 
So  I  went  ashore  and  hired  a  horse  of  the  ferryman 
• — one  of  those  "Green  Mountain  ponies"  of  which 
my  uncle  had  told  me :  "They'll  take  any  gait  that 
suits  ye,  except  a  slow  one,  an'  keep  it  to  the  end  o' 
the  road." 

I  think  that  I  never  had  a  horse  so  bent  on  reach 
ing  that  traditional  "end  of  the  road."  He  was 
what  they  called  a  "racker"  those  days,  and  a  rock 
ing-chair  was  not  easier  to  ride.  He  took  me  swiftly 
across  the  wide  flat  and  over  the  hills  and  seemed 
to  resent  my  effort  to  slow  him. 

I  passed  through  Middlebury  and  rode  into  the 
grounds  of  the  college,  where  the  Senator  had  been 
educated,  and  on  out  to  Weybridge  to  see  where  he 
had  lived  as  a  boy.  I  found  the  Wright  homestead 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  SCYTHE      357 

• — a  comfortable  white  house  at  the  head  of  a  beauti 
ful  valley  with  wrooded  hills  behind  it — and  rode  up 
to  the  door.  A  white-haired  old  lady  in  a  black 
lace  cap  was  sitting  on  its  porch  looking  out  at  the 
sunlit  fields. 

"Is  this  where  Senator  Wright  lived  when  he  was 
a  boy?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  sir,"  the  old  lady  answered. 

"I  am  from  Canton." 

She  rose  from  her  chair. 

"You  from  Canton !"  she  exclaimed.  "Why,  of 
all  things !  That's  where  my  boy's  home  is.  I'm 
glad  to  see  you.  Go  an'  put  your  horse  in  the 
barn." 

I  dismounted  and  she  came  near  me. 

"Silas  Wright  is  my  boy,"  she  said.  "What  is 
your  name?" 

"Barton  Baynes,"  I  answered  as  I  hitched  my 
horse. 

"Barton  Baynes!  Why,  Silas  has  told  me  all 
about  you  in  his  letters.  He  writes  to  me  every  week. 
Come  and  sit  down." 

We  sat  down  together  on  the  porch. 

"Silas  wrote  in  his  last  letter  that  you  wrere  go 
ing  to  leave  your  place  in  Cobleskill,"  she  continued 
to  my  surprise.  "He  said  that  he  was  glad  you  had 
decided  not  to  stay." 

It  was  joyful  news  to  me,  for  the  Senator's  silence 


S58       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

had  worried  me  and  I  had  begun  to  think  with  alarm 
of  my  future. 

"I  wish  that  he  would  take  you  to  Washington 
to  help  him.  The  poor  man  has  too  much  to  do." 

"I  should  think  it  a  great  privilege  to  go,"  I  an 
swered. 

"My  boy  likes  you,"  she  went  on.  "You  have 
been  brought  up  just  as  he  was.  I  used  to  read  to 
him  every  evening  when  the  candles  were  lit.  How 
hard  he  worked  to  make  a  man  of  himself !  I  have 
known  the  mother's  joy.  I  can  truly  say,  'Now  let 
thy  servant  depart  in  peace/  ' 

"  Tor  mine  eyes  have  seen  thy  salvation/  "  I 
quoted. 

"You  see  I  know  much  about  you  and  much  about 
your  aunt  and  uncle,"  said  Mrs.  Wright. 

She  left  me  for  a  moment  and  soon  the  whole 
household  was  gathered  about  me  on  the  porch,  the 
men  having  come  up  from  the  fields.  The  Senator 
had  told  them  on  his  last  visit  of  my  proficiency  as 
a  sound-hand  writer  and  I  amused  them  by  explain 
ing  the  art  of  it.  They  put  my  horse  in  the  barn  and 
pressed  me  to  stay  for  dinner,  which  I  did.  It  was 
a  plain  boiled  dinner  at  which  the  Senator's  cousin 
and  his  hired  man  sat  down  in  their  shirt-sleeves  and 
during  which  I  heard  many  stories  of  the  boyhood 
of  the  great  man.  As  I  was  going  the  gentle  old 
lady  gave  me  a  pair  of  mittens  which  her  distin- 


THE  MAX  WITH  THE  SCYTHE       3594 

guished  son  had  worn  during  his  last  winter  in 
college.  I  remember  well  how  tenderly  she  handled 
them! 

"I  hope  that  Silas  will  get  you  to  help  him" — 
those  were  the  last  words  she  said  to  me  when  I 
bade  her  good-by. 

The  visit  had  set  me  up  a  good  deal.  The  knowl 
edge  that  I  had  been  so  much  in  the  Senator's 
thoughts,  and  that  he  approved  my  decision  to  leave 
the  learned  judge,  gave  me  new  heart.  I  had  never 
cherished  the  thought  that  he  would  take  me  to 
Washington  although,  now  and  then,  a  faint  star  of 
hope  had  shone  above  the  capitol  in  my  dreams.  As 
I  rode  along  I  imagined  myself  in  that  great  arena 
and  sitting  where  I  could  see  the  flash  of  its  swords 
and  hear  the  thunder  of  Homeric  voices.  That  is 
the  way  I  thought  of  it.  Well,  those  were  no  weak, 
piping  times  of  peace,  my  brothers.  They  were 
times  of  battle  and  as  I  rode  through  that  peaceful 
summer  afternoon  I  mapped  my  way  to  the  fighting 
line.  I  knew  that  I  should  enjoy  the  practise  of  the 
law  but  I  had  begun  to  feel  that  eventually  my 
client  would  be  the  people  whose  rights  were  sub 
ject  to  constant  aggression  as  open  as  that  of  the 
patroons  or  as  insidious  as  that  of  the  canal  ring. 

The  shadows  were  long  when  I  got  to  Canterbury. 
At  the  head  of  its  main  street  I  looked  down  upon 
a  village  green  and  some  fine  old  elms.  It  was  a 


360       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

singularly  quiet  place.  I  stopped  in  front  of  a  big 
white  meeting  house.  An  old  man  was  mowing  in 
its  graveyard  near  the  highway.  Slowly  he  swung 
his  scythe. 

"It's  a  fine  day,"  I  said. 

"No,  it  ain't,  nuther — too  much  hard  work  in 
it,"  said  he. 

"Do  you  know  where  Kate  F\illerton  lives?"  I 
asked. 

"Well,  it's  purty  likely  that  I  do,"  he  answered 
as  he  stood  resting  on  his  snath.  "I've  lived  seventy- 
two  years  on  this  hill  come  the  fourteenth  day  o' 
June,  an'  if  I  didn't  know  where  she  lived  I'd  be 
'shamed  of  it." 

He  looked  at  me  thoughtfully  for  a  moment  and 
added : 

"I  know  everybody  that  lives  here  an'  everybody 
that  dies  here,  an'  some  that  orto  be  livin'  but  ain't 
an'  some  that  orto  be  dead  which  ye  couldn't  kill  'em 
with  an  ax — don't  seem  so — I  declare  it  don't.  Do 
ye  see  that  big  house  down  there  in  the  trees  ?" 

I  could  see  the  place  at  which  he  pointed  far  back 
from  the  village  street  in  the  valley  below  us,  the 
house  nearly  hidden  by  tall  evergreens. 

"Yes,"  I  answered. 

"No  ye  can't,  nuther — leastways  if  ye  can  ye've 
got  better  eyes'n  mos'  people,  ye  can't  see  only  a 
patch  o'  the  roof  an'  one  chimney — them  pine  trees 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  SCYTHE       361 

bein'  thicker'n  the  hair  on  a  dog.  It's  the  gloomiest 
ol*  house  in  all  creation,  I  guess.  Wai,  that's  the 
Squire  Fullerton  place — he's  Kate's  father." 

"Does  the  squire  live  there?" 

"No,  sir — not  eggzac'ly.  He's  dyin'  there — been 
dyin'  there  fer  two  year  er  more.  By  gosh!  It's 
wonderful  how  hard  'tis  fer  some  folks  to  quit 
breathin'.  Say,  be  you  any  o'  his  fam'ly?" 

"No." 

"Nornofriendo'his?" 

"No !" 

"Course  not.  He  never  had  a  friend  in  his  life — • 
too  mean !  He's  too  mean  to  die,  mister — too  mean 
fer  hell  an*  I  wouldn't  wonder — honest,  I  wouldn't 
• — mebbe  that's  \vhy  God  is  keepin'  him  here — jest 
to  meller  him  up  a  little.  Say,  mister,  be  you  in  a 
hurry?" 

"No." 

"Yis  ye  be.  Everybody's  in  a  hurry — seems  to 
me — since  we  got  steam  power  in  the  country.  Say, 
hitch  yer  hoss  an'  come  in  here.  I  want  to  show 
ye  suthin'." 

He  seemed  to  enjoy  contradicting  me. 

"Nobody  seems  in  a  hurry  in  this  town,"  I  said. 

"Don't,  hey?  Wai,  ye  ought  to  'a'  seen  Deacon 
Norton  run  when  some  punkins  on  his  side  hill  bu'st 
their  vines  an'  come  rollin'  down  an'  chased  him  half 
a  mile  into  the  valley." 


362       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

I  dismounted  and  hitched  my  horse  to  the  fence 
and  followed  him  into  the  old  churchyard,  between 
weather-stained  mossy  headstones  and  graves  over 
grown  with  wild  roses.  Near  the  far  end  of  these 
thick-sown  acres  he  stopped. 

"Here's  where  the  buryin'  begun,"  said  my  guide. 
'The  first  hole  in  the  hill  was  dug  for  a  Fullerton." 

There  were  many  small  monuments  and  slabs  of 
marble — some  spotted  with  lichens  and  all  in  com 
memoration  of  departed  Fullertons. 

"Say,  look  a'  that,"  said  my  guide  as  he  pulled 
aside  the  stem  of  a  leafy  brier  red  with  roses.  "Jest 
read  that,  mister." 

My  keen  eyes  slowly  spelled  out  the  time-worn 
words  on  a  slab  of  stained  marble : 

Sacred  to  the  memory  of 
Katherine  Fullerton 

1787-1806 

"Proclaim  his  Word  in  every  place 
That  they  are  dead  who  fall  from  grace." 

A  dark  shadow  fell  upon  the  house  of  my  soul 
and  I  heard  a  loud  rapping  at  its  door  which  con 
fused  me  until,  looking  out,  I  saw  the  strange  truth 
of  the  matter.  Rose  leaves  and  blossoms  seemed 
to  be  trying  to  hide  it  with  their  beauty,  but  in  vain. 

"I  understand,"  I  said. 

"No  ye  don't.    Leastways  I  don't  believe  ye  do — • 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  SCYTHE       363 

not  correct.  Squire  Fullerton  dug  a  grave  here  an* 
had  an  empty  coffin  put  into  it  away  back  in  1806. 
It  means  that  he  wanted  everybody  to  understan' 
that  his  girl  was  jest  the  same  as  dead  to  him  an'  to 
God.  Say,  he  knew  all  about  God's  wishes — that 
man.  Gosh !  He  has  sent  more  folks  to  hell  than 
there  are  in  it,  I  guess.  Say,  mister,  do  ye  know 
why  he  sent  her  there?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"Yis  ye  do,  too.  It's  the  same  ol'  thing  that's 
been  sendin'  women  to  hell  ever  since  the  world  be 
gun.  Ye  know  hell  must  'a'  been  the  invention  of 
a  man — that's  sartin — an'  it  was  mostly  fer  women 
an*  children — that's  sartiner — an'  fer  all  the  men 
that  didn't  agree  with  him.  Set  down  here  an'  I'll 
tell  ye  the  hull  story.  My  day's  work  is  done." 

We  sat  down  together  and  he  wrent  on  as  follows : 

"Did  ye  ever  see  Kate  Fullerton?" 

"Yes." 

"No  ye  didn't,  nuther.  Yer  too  young.  Mebbe 
ye  seen  her  when  she  was  old  an'  broke  down  but 
that  wa'n't  Kate — no  more'n  I'm  Bill  Tweedy,  which 
I  ain't.  Kate  was  as  handsome  as  a  golden  robin. 
Hair  yeller  as  his  breast  an'  feet  as  spry  as  his  wings 
an'  a  voice  as  swreet  as  his  song,  an'  eyes  as  bright 
as  his'n — yis,  sir — ye  couldn't  beat  her  fer  looks. 
That  was  years  and  years  ago.  Her  mother  died 
When  Kate  was  ten  year  old — there's  her  grave  in 


364       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

there  with  the  sickle  an'  the  sheaf  an'  the  portry  on 
it.  That  was  unfort'nit  an'  no  mistake.  Course 
the  squire  married  ag'in  but  the  new  wife  wa'n't  no 
kind  of  a  mother  to  the  girl  an'  you  know,  mister, 
there  was  a  young  scoundrel  here  by  the  name  o' 
Grimshaw.  His  father  was  a  rich  man — owned  the 
cooper  shop  an'  the  saw-mill  an'  the  tannery  an'  a 
lot  o'  cleared  land  down  in  the  valley.  He  kep' 
comp'ny  with  her  fer  two  or  three  year.  Then  all  of 
a  sudden  folks  began  to  talk — the  women  in  par- 
tic'lar.  Ye  know  men  invented  hell  an'  women  keep 
up  the  fire.  Kate  didn't  look  right  to  'em.  Fust 
we  knew,  young  Grimshaw  had  dropped  her  an'  was 
keepin'  comp'ny  with  another  gal — yis,  sir.  Do  ye 
know  why?" 

Before  I  could  answer  he  went  on : 

"No  ye  don't — leastways  I  don't  believe  ye  do. 
It  was  'cause  her  father  was  richer'n  the  squire  an' 
had  promised  his  gal  ten  thousan'  dollars  the  day  she 
was  married.  All  of  a  sudden  Kate  disappeared. 
We  didn't  know  what  had  happened  fer  a  long  time." 

"One  day  the  ol'  squire  got  me  to  dig  this  grave 
an'  put  up  the  headstun  an'  then  he  tol'  me  the  story. 
He'd  turned  the  poor  gal  out  o'  doors.  God  o' 
Israel !  It  was  in  the  night — yis,  sir — it  was  in  the 
night  that  he  sent  her  away.  Goldarn  him!  He 
didn't  have  no  more  heart  than  a  grasshopper — no. 


THE  MAX  WITH  THE  SCYTHE       365 

sir — not  a  bit.  I  could  'a'  brained  him  with  my 
shovel,  but  I  didn't. 

"I  found  out  where  the  gal  had  gone  an**  I  fol- 
lered  her — yis  I  did — found  her  in  the  poorhouse 
way  over  on  Pussley  Hill — uh  huh !  She  jes'  put  her 
arms  'round  my  neck  an'  cried  an'  cried.  I  guess 
'twas  'cause  I  looked  kind  o'  friendly — uh  huh!  I 
tol*  her  she  should  come  right  over  to  our  house  an' 
stay  jest  as  long  as  she  wanted  to  as  soon  as  she 
got  well — yis,  sir,  I  did. 

"She  was  sick  all  summer  long — kind  o'  out  o' 
her  head,  ye  know,  an'  I  used  to  go  over  hossback 
an'  take  things  fer  her  to  eat.  An'  one  day  when 
I  was  over  there  they  was  wonderin'  what  they  was 
goin'  to  do  with  her  little  baby.  I  took  it  in  my  arms 
an'  I'll  be  gol  dummed  if  it  didn't  grab  hold  o'  my 
nose  an'  hang  on  like  a  puppy  to  a  root.  When 
they  tried  to  take  it  a\vay  it  grabbed  its  fingers  into 
my  \vhiskers  an'  hollered  like  a  panther — yis,  sir. 
Wai,  ye  know  I  jes'  fetched  that  little  baby  boy 
home  in  my  arms,  ay  uh !  My  wrife  scolded  me  like 
Sam  Hill — yis,  sir — she  had  five  of  her  own.  I  tol' 
her  I  was  goin'  to  take  it  back  in  a  day  er  two  but 
after  it  had  been  in  the  house  three  days  ye  couldn't 
'a'  pulled  it  away  from  her  with  a  windlass. 

"We  brought  him  up  an'  he  was  alwuss  a  good 
boy.  We  called  him  Enoch — Enoch  Rone — did  ye 
ever  hear  the  name  ?" 


366       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING  \ 

"  'No.' 

"I  didn't  think  'twas  likely  but  I'm  alwuss  hopin'. 

"Early  that  fall  Kate  got  better  an'  left  the  poor- 
house  afoot.  Went  away  somewheres — nobody 
knew  where.  Some  said  she'd  crossed  the  lake  an' 
gone  away  over  into  York  State,  some  said  she'd 
drowned  herself.  By'm  by  we  heard  that  she'd  gone 
way  over  into  St.  Lawrence  County  where  Silas 
Wright  lives  an'  where  young  Grimshaw  had  settled 
down  after  he  got  married. 

"Wai,  'bout  five  year  ago  the  squire  buried  his 
second  wife — there  'tis  over  in  there  back  o'  Kate's 
with  the  little  speckled  angel  on  it.  Nobody  had  seen 
the  squire  outside  o'  his  house  for  years  until  the 
funeral — he  was  crippled  so  with  rheumatiz.  After 
that  he  lived  all  'lone  in  the  big  house  with  ol'  Tom 
Linney  an'  his  wife,  who've  worked  there  fer  'bout 
forty  year,  I  guess. 

"Wai,  sir,  fust  we  knew  Kate  was  there  in  the 
house  livin'  with  her  father.  We  wouldn't  'a' 
knowed  it,  then,  if  it  hadn't  been  that  Tom  Linney 
come  over  one  day  an'  said  he  guessed  -the  ol'  squire 
wanted  to  see  me — no,  sir,  we  wouldn't — fer  the 
squire  ain't  sociable  an'  the  neighbors  never  darken 
his  door.  She  must  'a'  come  in  the  night,  jest  as  she 
went — nobody  see  her  go  an'  nobody  see  her  come, 
an'  that's  a  fact.  Wai,  one  day  las'  fall  after  the 
leaves  was  off  an'  they  could  see  a  corner  o'  my 


THE  MAN  AYITH  THE  SCYTHE       367 

house  through  the  bushes,  Tom  was  walkin'  the  ol' 
man  'round  the  room.  All  to  once  he  stopped  an* 
p'inted  at  my  house  through  the  winder  an'  kep' 
p'intin'.  Tom  come  over  an'  said  he  ca'llated  the 
squire  wanted  to  see  me.  So  I  went  there.  Kate 
met  me  at  the  door.  Gosh !  How  old  an'  kind  o* 
broke  down  she  looked !  But  I  knew  her  the  minute 
I  set  my  eyes  on  her — uh  huh — an'  she  knew  me — 
yis,  sir — she  smiled  an'  tears  come  to  her  eyes  an' 
she  patted  my  hand  like  she  wanted  to  tell  me  that 
she  hadn't  forgot,  but  she  never  said  a  word — not  a 
word.  The  ol'  squire  had  the  palsy,  so  't  he  couldn't 
use  his  hands  an'  his  throat  was  paralyzed — couldn't 
speak  ner  nothin'.  Where  do  ye  suppose  he  was 
when  I  found  him  ?" 

"In  bed?"  I  asked. 

"No,  sir — no,  siree !  He  was  in  hell — that's  where 
he  was — reg'lar  ol'  fashioned,  down-east  hell,  burnin' 
with  fire  an'  brimstun,  that  he'd  had  the  agency  for 
an'  had  recommended  to  every  sinner  in  the  neigh 
borhood.  He  was  settin'  in  his  room.  God  o* 
Isr'el !  You  orto  'a'  seen  the  motions  he  made  with 
his  hands  an'  the  way  he  tried  to  speak  when  I  went 
in  there,  but  all  I  could  hear  was  jest  a  long  yell  an' 
a  kind  of  a  rattle  in  his  throat.  Heavens  an'  airth! 
how  desperit  he  tried  to  spit  out  the  thing  that  was 
gnawin'  his  vitals.  Ag'in  an'  ag'in  he'd  try  to  tell 
me.  Lord  God !  how  he  did  work ! 


368      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

"All  to  once  it  come  acrost  me  what  he  wanted — 
quick  as  ye  could  say  scat.  He  wanted  to  have 
Kate's  headstun  took  down  an'  put  away — that's 
what  he  wanted.  That  stun  was  kind  o'  layin'  on 
his  stummick  an'  painin'  of  him  day  an'  night.  He 
couldn't  stan'  it.  He  knew  that  he  was  goin'  to  die 
purty  soon  an'  that  Kate  would  come  here  an'  see  it 
an'  that  everybody  would  see  her  standin'  here  by 
her  own  grave,  an'  it  worried  him.  It  was  kind  o' 
like  a  fire  in  his  belly. 

"I  guess,  too,  he  couldn't  bear  the  idee  o'  layin' 
down  fer  his  las'  sleep  beside  that  hell  hole  he'd  dug 
fer  Kate — no,  sir ! 

"Wai,  ye  know,  mister,  I  jes'  shook  my  head  an* 
never  let  on  that  I  knew  what  he  meant  an'  let  him 
wiggle  an'  twist  like  a  worm  on  a  hot  griddle,  an' 
beller  like  a  cut  bull  'til  he  fell  back  in  a  swoon. 

"Damn  him !  it  don't  give  him  no  rest.  He  tries 
to  tell  everybody  he  sees — that's  what  they  say.  He 
bellers  day  an'  night  an'  if  you  go  down  there  he'll 
beller  to  you  an*  you'll  know  what  it's  about,  but  the 
others  don't. 

"You  an'  me  are  the  only  ones  that  knows  the 
secret,  I  guess.  Some  day,  'fore  he  dies,  I'm  goin' 
to  take  up  that  headstun  an'  hide  it,  but  he'll  never 
know  it's  done — no,  sir — not  'til  he  gits  to  the  judg 
ment  seat,  anyway." 

The  old  man  stopped  and  rubbed  his  hands  to- 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  SCYTHE       869 

( 

gether  as  if  he  were  washing  them  of  the  whole  mat 
ter.  The  dusk  of  evening  had  fallen  and  crocked 
the  white  marble  and  blurred  the  lettered  legends 
around  us.  The  mossy  stones  now  reminded  me 
only  of  the  innumerable  host  of  the  dead.  Softly 
the  notes  of  a  song  sparrow  scattered  down  into  the 
silence  that  followed  the  strange  story. 

The  old  man  rose  and  straightened  himself  and 
blew  out  his  breath  and  brushed  his  hands  upon  his 
trousers  by  way  of  stepping  down  into  this  world 
again  out  of  the  close  and  dusty  loft  of  his  memory. 
But  I  called  him  back. 

"What  has  become  of  Enoch?"  I  asked. 

"Wai,  sir,  Enoch  started  off  west  'bout  three  year 
ago  an'  we  ain't  heard  a  word  from  him  since  that 
day — nary  a  word,  mister.  I  suppose  we  will  some 
time.  He  grew  into  a  good  man,  but  there  was  a 
kind  of  a  queer  streak  in  the  blood,  as  ye  might  say, 
on  both  sides  kind  o'.  We've  wrote  letters  out  to 
Wisconsin,  where  he  was  p'intin'  for,  an'  to  places 
on  the  way,  but  we  can't  git  no  news  'bout  him. 
Mebbe  he  was  killed  by  the  Injuns." 

We  walked  out  of  the  graveyard  together  in  si 
lence.  Dimly  above  a  distant  ridge  I  could  see  stark, 
dead  timber  looming  on  a  scarlet  cloud  in  the  twi 
light.  It  is  curious  how  carefully  one  notes  the  set 
ting  of  the  scene  in  which  his  spirit  has  been  deeply 
stirred. 


370       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

I  could  see  a  glimmer  of  a  light  in  the  thicket  of 
pines  down  the  valley.  I  unhitched  and  mounted 
my  horse. 

"Take  the  first  turn  to  the  right,"  said  the  old 
man  as  he  picked  up  his  scythe. 

"I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you,"  I  said. 

"No  ye  ain't,  nuther,"  he  answered.  "Leastways 
there  ain't  no  reason  why  ye  should  be." 

My  horse,  impatient  as  ever  to  find  the  end  of  the 
road,  hurried  me  along  and  in  a  moment  or  two  we 
were  down  under  the  pine  grove  that  surrounded  the 
house  of  old  Squire  Fullerton — a  big,  stone  house 
with  a  graveled  road  around  it.  A  great  black  dog 
came  barking  and  growling  at  me  from  the  front 
porch.  I  rode  around  the  house  and  he  followed. 
Beyond  the  windows  I  could  see  the  gleam  of  candle 
light  and  moving  figures.  A  man  came  out  of  the 
back  door  as  I  neared  it. 

"Who's  there?"  he  demanded. 

"My  name  is  Barton  Baynes  from  St.  Lawrence 
County.  Kate  Fullerton  is  my  friend  and  I  wish  to 
see  her." 

"Come  up  to  the  steps,  sor.  Don't  git  off  yer 
horse — 'til  I've  chained  the  dog.  Kate'll  be  out  in 
a  minute." 

He  chained  the  dog  to  the  hitching  post  and  as 
he  did  so  a  loud,  long,  wailing  cry  broke  the  silence 
of  the  house.  It  put  me  in  mind  of  the  complaint 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  SCYTHE       371 

of  the  damned  which  I  remembered  hearing  the 
minister  describe  years  before  at  the  little  school- 
house  in  Lickitysplit.  How  it  harrowed  me ! 

The  man  went  into  the  house.  Soon  he  came  out 
of  the  door  with  a  lighted  candle  in  his  hand,  a 
woman  following.  How  vividly  I  remember  the 
little  murmur  of  delight  that  came  from  her  lips 
when  he  held  the  candle  so  that  its  light  fell  upon 
my  face !  I  jumped  off  my  horse  and  gave  the  reins 
to  the  man  and  put  my  arms  around  the  poor 
woman,  whom  I  loved  for  her  sorrows  and  for  my 
debt  to  her,  and  rained  kisses  upon  her  withered 
cheek.  Oh  God !  what  a  moment  it  was  for  both  of 
us! 

The  way  she  held  me  to  her  breast  and  patted  my 
shoulder  and  said  "my  boy!" — in  a  low,  faint,  treble 
voice  so  like  that  of  a  child — it  is  one  of  the  best 
memories  that  I  take  with  me  into  the  new  life  now 
so  near,  from  which  there  is  no  returning. 

"  'My  boy !' '  Did  it  mean  that  she  had  appointed 
me  to  be  a  kind  of  proxy  for  the  one  she  had  lost 
and  that  she  had  given  to  me  the  affection  which  God 
had  stored  in  her  heart  for  him?  Of  that,  I  know 
only  what  may  be  conveyed  by  strong  but  unspoken 
assurance. 

She  led  me  into  the  house.  She  looked  very  neat 
now — in  a  black  gown  over  which  was  a  spotless 
white  apron  and  collar  of  lace — and  much  more 


372       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

slender  than  when  I  had  seen  her  last.  She  took  me 
into  a  large  room  in  the  front  of  the  house  with  a 
carpet  and  furniture,  handsome  once  but  now  worn 
and  decrepit.  Old,  time-stained  engravings  of  scenes 
from  the  Bible,  framed  in  wood,  hung  on  the  walls. 

She  gave  me  a  chair  by  the  candle-stand  and  sat 
near  me  and  looked  into  my  face  with  a  smile  of 
satisfaction.  In  a  moment  she  pointed  toward  the 
west  with  that  forefinger,  which  in  my  presence  had 
cut  down  her  enemy,  and  whispered  the  one  word : 

"News?" 

I  told  all  that  I  had  heard  from  home  and  of  my 
life  in  Cobleskill  but  observed,  presently,  a  faraway 
look  in  her  eyes  and  judged  that  she  was  not  hear 
ing  me.  Again  she  whispered : 

"Sally?" 

"She  has  been  at  school  in  Albany  for  a  year," 
I  said.  "She  is  at  home  now  and  I  am  going  to  see 
her." 

"You  love  Sally?"  she  whispered. 

"Better  than  I  love  my  life." 

Again  she  whispered :  "Get  married !" 

"We  hope  to  in  1844.  I  have  agreed  to  meet  her 
by  the  big  pine  tree  on  the  river  bank  at  eleven 
o'clock  the  third  of  June,  1844.  We  are  looking  for^ 
ward  to  that  day." 

A  kind  of  shadow  seemed  to  come  out  of  her  spirit 
and  rest  upon  her  face  and  for  a  moment  she  looked 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  SCYTHE       373 

very  solemn.  I  suppose  that  she  divined  the  mean 
ing  of  all  that.  She  shook  her  head  and  whispered : 

"Money  thirst  I" 

A  tall,  slim  woman  entered  the  room  then  and  said 
that  supper  was  ready.  Kate  rose  with  a  smile  and 
I  followed  her  into  the  dining-room  where  two  tables 
were  spread.  One  had  certain  dishes  on  it  and  a 
white  cover,  frayed  and  worn.  She  led  me  to  the 
other  table  which  was  neatly  covered  with  snowy 
linen.  The  tall  woman  served  a  supper  on  deep,  blue 
china,  cooked  as  only  they  could  cook  in  old  New 
England.  Meanwhile  I  could  hear  the  voice  of  the 
aged  squire — a  weird,  empty,  inhuman  voice  it  was, 
utterly  cut  off  from  his  intelligence.  It  came  out  of 
the  troubled  depths  of  his  misery. 

So  that  house — the  scene  of  his  great  sin  which 
would  presently  lie  down  with  him  in  the  dust — was 
flooded,  a  hundred  times  a  day,  by  the  unhappy  spirit 
of  its  master.  In  the  dead  of  the  night  I  heard  its 
despair  echoing  through  the  silent  chambers. 

Kate  said  little  as  we  ate,  or  as  we  sat  together  in 
the  shabby,  great  room  after  supper,  but  she  seemed 
to  enjoy  my  talk  and  I  went  into  the  details  of  my 
personal  history.  How  those  years  of  suffering  and 
silence  had  warped  her  soul  and  body  in  a  way  of 
speaking!  They  were  a  poor  fit  in  any  company 
now.  Her  tongue  had  lost  its  taste  for  speech  I 
doubt  not;  her  voice  was  gone,  although  I  had 


374       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

heard  a  low  plaintive  murmur  in  the  words  "my 
boy." 

The  look  of  her  face,  even  while  I  was  speaking, 
indicated  that  her  thoughts  wandered,  restlessly,  in 
the  gloomy  desert  of  her  past.  I  thought  of  that  gay 
bird-like  youth  of  hers  of  which  the  old  man  with 
the  scythe  had  told  me  and  wondered.  As  I  was 
thinking  of  this  there  came  a  cry  from  the  aged 
squire  so  loud  and  doleful  that  it  startled  me  and  I 
turned  and  looked  toward  the  open  door. 

Kate  rose  and  came  to  my  side  and  leaning  toward 
my  ear  whispered : 

"It  is  my  father.  He  is  always  thinking  of  when 
I  was  a  girl.  He  wants  me." 

She  bade  me  good  night  and  left  the  room.  Doubt 
less  it  was  the  outraged,  departed  spirit  of  that 
golden  time  which  was  haunting  the  old  squire.  A 
Bible  lay  on  the  table  near  me  and  I  sat  reading  it 
for  an  hour  or  so.  A  tall  clock  in  a  corner  solemnly 
tolled  the  hour  of  nine.  In  came  the  tall  woman  and 
asked  in  the  brogue  of  the  Irish : 

"Would  ye  like  to  go  to  bed?" 

"Yes,  I  am  tired." 

She  took  a  candle  and  led  me  up  a  broad  oaken 
stairway  and  into  a  room  of  the  most  generous  pro 
portions.  A  big  four-post  bedstead,  draped  in  white, 
stood  against  a  wall.  The  bed,  sheeted  in  old  linen, 
had  quilted  covers.  The  room  was  noticeably  clean ; 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  SCYTHE       375 

its  furniture  of  old  mahogany  and  its  carpet  compar 
atively  unworn. 

When  I  was  undressed  I  dreaded  to  put  out  the 
candle.  For  the  first  time  in  years  I  had  a  kind  of 
child- fear  of  the  night.  But  I  went  to  bed  at  last 
and  slept  rather  fitfully,  waking  often  when  the  cries 
of  the  old  squire  came  flooding  through  the  walls. 
How  I  longed  for  the  light  of  morning!  It  came 
at  last  and  I  rose  and  dressed  and  seeing  the  hired 
man  in  the  yard,  went  out-of-doors.  He  was  a  good- 
natured  Irishman. 

"I'm  glad  o'  the  sight  o'  ye  this  fine  mornin',"  said 
he.  "It's  a  pleasure  to  see  any  one  that  has  all  their 
senses — sure  it  is." 

I  went  with  him  to  the  stable  yard  where  he  did 
his  milking  and  talked  of  his  long  service  writh  the 
squire. 

"We  was  glad  when  he  wrote  for  Kate  to  come," 
he  said.  "But,  sure,  I  don't  think  it's  done  him  any 
good.  He's  gone  wild  since  she  got  here.  He  was 
always  fond  o'  his  family  spite  o'  all  they  say.  Did 
ye  see  the  second  table  in  the  dinin'-room?  Sure, 
that's  stood  there  ever  since  his  first  wife  et  her  last 
meal  on  it,  just  as  it  was  then,  sor — the  same  cloth, 
the  same  dishes,  the  same  sugar  in  the  bowl,  the  same 
pickles  in  the  jar.  He  was  like  one  o'  them  big  rocks 
in  the  field  there — ye  couldn't  move  him  when  he 
put  his  foot  down." 


376       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

Kate  met  me  at  the  door  when  I  went  back  into 
the  house  and  kissed  my  cheek  and  again  I  heard 
those  half-spoken  words,  "My  boy."  I  ate  my 
breakfast  with  her  and  when  I  was  about  to  get  into 
my  saddle  at  the  door  I  gave  her  a  hug  and,  as  she 
tenderly  patted  my  cheek,  a  smile  lighted  her  coun 
tenance  so  that  it  seemed  to  'shine  upon  me.  I  have 
never  forgotten  its  serenity  and  sweetness. 


CHAPTER  XVIK 

I  START  IN  A  LONG  WAY, 

I  JOURNEYED  to  Canton  in  the  midst  of  the 
haying  season.  After  the  long  stretches  of  for 
est  road  we  hurried  along  between  fragrant 
fields  of  drying  hay.  At  each  tavern  we  first  entered 
the  barroom  where  the  landlord — always  a  well- 
dressed  man  of  much  dignity  and  filled  with  the  news 
of  the  time,  that  being  a  part  of  his  entertainment — 
received  us  writh  cheerful  words.  His  housekeeper 
was  there  and  assigned  our  quarters  for  the  night. 
Our  evenings  wrere  spent  playing  cards  or  back 
gammon  or  listening  to  the  chatter  of  our  host  by  the 
fireside.  At  our  last  stop  on  the  road  I  opened  my 
trunk  and  put  on  my  best  suit  of  clothes. 

We  reached  Canton  at  six  o'clock  in  the  evening 
of  a  beautiful  summer  day.  I  went  at  once  to  call 
upon  the  Dunkelbergs  and  learned  from  a  man  at 
work  in  the  dooryard  that  they  had  gone  away  for 
the  summer.  How  keen  was  my  disappointment! 
I  went  to  the  tavern  and  got  my  supper  and  then 
over  to  Ashery  Lane  to  see  Michael  Hacket  and  his 
family.  I  found  the  schoolmaster  playing  his  violin. 

377 


378      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

"Now  God  be  praised — here  is  Bart!"  he  ex 
claimed  as  he  put  down  his  instrument  and  took  my 
hands  in  his.  "I've  heard,  my  boy,  how  bravely 
ye've  weathered  the  capes  an'  I'm  proud  o'  ye — that  I 
am!" 

I  wondered  what  he  meant  for  a  second  and  then 
asked : 

"How  go  these  days  with  you  ?" 

"Swift  as  the  weaver's  shuttle/'  he  answered. 
"Sit  you  down,  while  I  call  the  family.  They're 
out  in  the  kitchen  putting  the  dishes  away.  Many 
hands  make  light  labor." 

They  came  quickly  and  gathered  about  me — a 
noisy,  happy  group.  The  younger  children  kissed  me 
and  sat  on  my  knees  and  gave  me  the  small  news  of 
the  neighborhood. 

How  good  were  the  look  of  those  friendly  faces 
and  the  full-hearted  pleasure  of  the  whole  family  at 
my  coming ! 

"What  a  joy  for  the  spare  room !"  exclaimed  the 
schoolmaster.  "Sure  I  wouldn't  wonder  if  the  old 
bed  was  dancin'  on  its  four  legs  this  very  minute." 

"I  intend  to  walk  up  to  the  hills  to-night,"  I  said. 

"Up  to  the  hills !"  he  exclaimed  merrily.  "An5  the 
Hackets  lyin'  awake  thinkin'  o'  ye  on  the  dark  road ! 
Try  it,  boy,  an'  ye'll  get  a  crack  with  the  ruler  and 
an  hour  after  school.  Yer  aunt  and  uncle  will  be 
stronger  to  stand  yer  comin'  with  the  night's  rest 


I  START  ix  A  LONG  WAY          379 

upon  them.  Ye  wouldn't  be  routin'  them  out  o'  bed 
an'  ,they  after  a  hard  day  with  the  hayin' !  Then, 
my  kind-hearted  lad,  ye  must  give  a  thought  to 
Michael  Henry.  He's  still  alive  an'  stronger  than 
ever— thank  God !" 

So,  although  I  longed  for  those  most  dear  to  me 
up  in  the  hills,  I  spent  the  night  with  the  Hackets 
and  the  schoolmaster  and  I  sat  an  hour  together 
after  the  family  had  gone  to  bed. 

''How  are  the  Dunkelbergs  ?"  I  asked. 

"Sunk  in  the  soft  embrace  o'  luxury,"  he  an 
swered.  "GrimshawT  made  him;  Grimshaw  liked 
him.  He  was  always  ready  to  lick  the  boots  o' 
Grimshaw.  It  turned  out  that  Grimshaw  left  him  an 
annuity  of  three  thousand  dollars,  which  he  can 
enjoy  as  long  as  he  observes  one  condition." 

"What  is  that?" 

"He  must  not  let  his  daughter  marry  one  Barton 
Baynes,  late  o'  the  town  o'  Ballybeen.  How  is  that 
for  spite,  my  boy?  They  say  it's  written  down  in 
the  will." 

I  think  that  he  must  have  seen  the  flame  of  color 
playing  on  my  face,  for  he  quickly  added : 

"Don't  worry,  lad.  The  will  o'  God  is  greater 
than  the  will  o'  Grimshaw.  He  made  you  two  for 
each  other  and  she  will  be  true  to  ye,  as  true  as  the 
needle  to  the  north  star." 

"Do  you  think  so?" 


380       THE  L'IGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

"Sure  I  do.  Didn't  she  as  much  as  tell  me  that 
here  in  this  room — not  a  week  ago?  She  loves  ye, 
boy,  as  true  as  God  loves  ye,  an'  she's  a  girl  of  a 
thousand. 

"Her  father  is  a  bit  too  fond  o'  money.  I've 
never  been  hard  struck  with  him.  It  has  always 
seemed  to  me  that  he  was  afflicted  with  perfection — • 
a  camellia  man ! — so  invariably  neat  and  proper  and 
conventional !  Such  precise  and  wearisome  recti 
tude!  What  a  relief  it  would  be  to  see  him  in  his 
shirt-sleeves  or  with  soiled  boots  or  linen  or  to  hear 
him  say  something — well — unexpected!  Six  shill 
ings  a  week  to  the  church  and  four  to  charity,  as  if 
that  were  the  contract — no  more,  no  less !  But  did 
ye  ever  hear  o'  his  going  out  o'  his  way  to  do  a  good 
thing — say  to  help  a  poor  woman  left  with  a  lot  o' 
babies  or  a  poor  lad  that  wants  to  go  to  school  ?  'No, 
I'm  very  sorry,  but  I  give  four  shillings  a  week  to 
charity  and  that's  all  I  can  afford.' ' 

"Why  did  they  go  away?  Was  it  because  I  was 
coming?" 

"I  think  it  likely,  my  fine  lad.  The  man  heard  o' 
it  some  way — perhaps  through  yer  uncle.  He's 
crazy  for  the  money,  but  he'll  get  over  that.  Leave 
him  to  me.  I've  a  fine  course  o'  instruction  ready 
for  my  Lord  o'  Dunkelberg." 

"I  think  I  shall  go  and  try  to  find  her,"  I  said. 

"J  am  to  counsel  ye  about  that,"  said  the  school- 


I  START  IN  A  LOXG  WAY          381 

master.  "She's  as  keen  as  a  brier — the  fox!  She 
says,  'Keep  away.  Don't  alarm  him,  or  he'll  bundle 
us  off  to  Europe  for  two  or  three  years/ 

"So  there's  the  trail  ye  travel,  my  boy.  It's  the 
one  that  keeps  away.  Don't  let  him  think  ye've  any 
thing  up  the  sleeve  o'  yer  mind.  Ye  know,  lad,  I 
believe  Sally's  mother  has  hold  o'  the  same  rope 
with  her  and  when  two  clever  women  get  their  wits 
together  the  divvle  scratches  his  head.  It's  an  old 
sayin',  lad,  an'  don't  ye  go  out  an'  cut  the  rope.  Keep 
yer  head  cool  an'  yer  heart  warm  and  go  right  on 
with  yer  business.  I  like  the  whole  plan  o'  this  re 
markable  courtship  o'  yours." 

"I  guess  you  like  it  better  than  I  do,"  was  my 
answer. 

"Ah,  my  lad,  I  know  the  heart  o'  youth !  Ye'd 
like  to  be  puttin'  yer  arms  around  her — wouldn't 
ye,  now?  Sure,  there's  time  enough!  You  two 
young  colts  are  bein'  broke'  an'  bitted.  Ye've  a 
.  chance  now  to  show  yer  quality — yer  faith,  yer 
I  loyalty,  yer  cleverness.  If  either  one  o'  ye  fails  that 
one  isn't  worthy  o'  the  other.  Ye're  in  the  old  tread 
mill  o'  God — the  both  o'  ye!  Ye're  bein'  weighed 
an*  tried  for  the  great  prize.  It's  not  pleasant,  but 
it's  better  so.  Go  on,  now,  an'  do  yer  best  an'  what 
ever  comes  take  it  like  a  man." 

A  little  silence  followed.  He  broke  it  with  these 
words : 


382       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

"Ye're  done  with  that  business  in  Cobleskill,  an* 
I'm  glad.  Ye  didn't  know  ye  were  bein'  tried  there 
— did  ye?  Ye've  stood  it  like  a  man.  What  will 
ye  be  doin'  now  ?" 

"I'd  like  to  go  to  Washington  with  the  Senator." 

He  laughed  heartily. 

"I  was  hopin'  ye'd  say  that,"  he  went  on.  "Well, 
boy,  I  think  it  can  be  arranged.  I'll  see  the  Sen 
ator  as  soon  as  ever  he  comes  an'  I  believe  he'll  be 
glad  to  know  o'  yer  wishes.  I  think  he's  been 
hopin',  like,  that  ye  would  propose  it.  Go  up  to  the 
farm  and  spend  a  happy  month  or  two  with  yer  aunt 
an'  uncle.  It'll  do  ye  good.  Ye've  been  growin' 
plump  down  there.  Go  an'  melt  it  off  in  the  fields." 

"How  is  Deacon  Binks?"  I  asked  presently. 

"Soul  buried  in  fat !  The  sparkler  on  his  bosom 
suggests  a  tombstone  stickin'  out  of  a  soiled  snow 
bank." 

A  little  more  talk  and  we  were  off  to  bed  with 
our  candles. 

Next  morning  I  went  down  into  the  main  street 
of  the  village  before  leaving  for  home.  I  wanted 
to  see  how  it  looked  and,  to  be  quite  frank,  I  wanted 
some  of  the  people  of  Canton  to  see  how  I  looked, 
for  my  clothes  were  of  the  best  cloth  and  cut  in  the 
latest  fashion.  Many  stopped  me  and  shook  my 
hand — men  and  women  who  had  never  noticed  me 
before,  but  there  was  a  quality  in  their  smiles  that 


I  START  IN  A  LONG  WAY          383 

I  didn't  quite  enjoy.  I  know  now  that  they  thought 
me  a  little  too  grand  on  the  outside.  What  a  stern- 
souled  lot  those  Yankees  were !  "All  ain't  gold  that 
glitters."  How  often  I  had  heard  that  version  of 
the  old  motto ! 

"Why,  you  look  like  the  Senator  when  he  is  just 
gittin'  home  from  the  capital/'  said  Mr.  Jenison. 

They  were  not  yet  willing  to  take  me  at  the  par  of 
my  appearance. 

I  met  Betsy  Price — one  of  my  schoolmates — on 
the  street.  She  was  very  cordial  and  told  me  that  the 
Dunkelbergs  had  gone  to  Saratoga. 

"I  got  a  letter  from  Sally  this  morning,"  Betsy 
went  on.  "She  said  that  young  Mr.  Latour  was  at 
the  same  hotel  and  that  he  and  her  father  were  good 
friends." 

I  wonder  if  she  really  enjoyed  sticking  this  thorn 
into  my  flesh — a  thorn  which  made  it  difficult  for  me 
to  follow  the  advice  of  the  schoolmaster  and  robbed 
me  of  the  little  peace  I  might  have  enjoyed.  My 
faith  in  Sally  wavered  up  and  down  until  it  settled 
at  its  wonted  level  and  reassured  me. 

It  was  a  perfect  summer  morning  and  I  enjoyed 
my  walk  over  the  familiar  road  and  up  into  the  hill 
country.  The  birds  seemed  to  sing  a  welcome  to  me. 
Men  and  boys  I  had  known  waved  their  hats  in  the 
hay-fields  and  looked  at  me.  There  are  few  pleas 
ures  in  this  world  like  that  of  a  boy  getting  home 


384      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

after  a  long  absence.  My  heart  beat  fast  when  I  saw 
the  house  and  my  uncle  and  Purvis  coming  in  from 
the  twenty-acre  lot  with  a  load  of  hay.  Aunt  Deel 
stood  on  the  front  steps  looking  down  the  road. 
Now  and  then  her  waving  handkerchief  went  to  her 
eyes.  Uncle  Peabody  came  down  the  standard  off 
his  load  and  walked  toward  me. 

"Say,  stranger,  have  you  seen  anything  of  a  feller 
by  the  name  o'  Bart  Baynes?"  he  demanded. 

"Have  you?"  Tasked. 

"No,  sir,  I  ain't.  Gosh  a'mighty !  Say !  what  have 
ye  done  with  that  boy  of  our'n?" 

"What  have  you  done  to  our  house?"  I  asked 
again. 

"Built  on  an  addition." 

"That's  what  I've  done  to  your  boy,"  I  answered. 

"Thunder  an'  lightnin' !  How  you've  raised  the 
roof!"  he  exclaimed  as  he  grabbed  my  satchel. 
"Dressed  like  a  statesman  an'  bigger'n  a  bullmoose. 
I  can't  'rastle  with  you  no  more.  But,  say,  I'll  run 
ye  a  race.  I  can  beat  ye  an'  carry  the  satchel,  too." 

We  ran  pell-mell  up  the  lane  to  the  steps  like  a 
pair  of  children. 

Aunt  Deel  did  not  speak.  She  just  put  her  arms 
around  me  and  laid  her  dear  old  head  upon  my 
breast.  Uncle  Peabody  turned  away.  Then  what 
a  silence!  Off  in  the  edge  of  the  woodland  I  heard 
the  fairy  flute  of  a  wood- thrush. 


I  START  IN  A  LONG  WAY          385 

"Purvis,  you  drive  that  load  on  the  floor  an*  put 
up  the  hosses,"  Uncle  Peabody  shouted  in  a  moment. 
"If  you  don't  like  it  you  can  hire  'nother  man.  I 
won't  do  no  more  till  after  dinner.  This  slave  busi 
ness  is  played  out." 

"All  right,"  Purvis  answered. 

"You  bet  it's  all  right.  I'm  fer  abolition  an*  I've 
stood  your  domineerin',  nigger-driver  ways  long 
enough  fer  one  mornin'.  If  you  don't  like  it  you 
can  look  for  another  man." 

Aunt  Deel  and  I  began  to  laugh  at  this  good-na 
tured,  make-believe  scolding  of  Uncle  Peabody  and 
the  emotional  strain  was  over.  They  led  me  into 
the  house  where  a  delightful  surprise  awaited  me, 
for  the  rooms  had  been  decorated  with  balsam 
boughs  and  sweet  ferns.  A  glowing  mass  of  violets, 
framed  in  moss,  occupied  the  center  of  the  table. 
The  house  was  filled  with  the  odors  of  the  forest, 
which,  as  they  knew,  were  dear  to  me.  I  had  writ 
ten  that  they  might  expect  me  some  time  before 
noon,  but  I  had  begged  them  not  to  meet  me  in  Can 
ton,  as  I  wished  to  walk  home  after  my  long  ride. 
So  they  were  ready  for  me. 

I  remember  how  they  felt  the  cloth  on  my  back 
and  how  proudly  they  surveyed  it. 

"Couldn't  buy  them  goods  'round  these  parts," 
said  Uncle  Peabody.  "Nor  nothin'  like  'em — no, 
sir." 


386      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

"Feels  a  leetle  bit  like  the  butternut  trousers,"  said 
Aunt  Deel  as  she  felt  my  coat. 

"Ayes,  but  them  butternut  trousers  ain't  what  they 
used  to  be  when  they  was  young  an'  limber,"  Uncle 
Peabody  remarked.  "Seems  so  they  was  gettin' 
kind  o'  wrinkled  an'  baldheaded-like,  'specially 
where  I  set  down." 

"Ayes !  Wai  I  guess  a  man  can't  grow  old  with 
out  his  pants  growin'  old,  too — ayes!"  said  Aunt 
Deel. 

"If  yer  legs  are  in  'em  ev'ry  Sunday  they  ketch  it 
of  ye,"  my  uncle  answered.  "Long  sermons  are 
hard  on  pants,  seems  to  me." 

"An'  the  longer  the  legs  the  harder  the  sermons — 
in  them  little  seats  over  Jt  the  schoolhouse — ayes!" 
Aunt  Deel  added  by  way  of  justifying  his  complaint. 
"There  wouldn't  be  so  much  wear  in  a  ten-mile  walk 
—no!" 

The  chicken  pie  was  baking  and  the  strawberries 
were  ready  for  the  shortcake. 

"I've  been  wallerin'  since  the  dew  was  off  gittin' 
them  berries  an'  vi'lets — ayes !"  said  Aunt  Deel,  now 
busy  with  her  work  at  the  stove. 

"Aunt,  you  look  as  young  as  ever,"  I  remarked. 

She  slapped  my  arm  and  said  with  mock  severity : 

"Stop  that !    W'y !    You  know  better— ayes !" 

How  vigorously  she  stirred  the  fire  then. 

"I  can't  return  the  compliment — my  soul!  how 


I  START  IN  A  LONG  WAY          387 

you've  changed! — ayes!"  she  remarked.  "I  hope 
you  ain't  fit  no  more,  Bart.  I  can't  bear  to  think  o' 
you  fly  in'  at  folks  an*  poundin'  of  'em.  Don't  seem 
right — no,  it  don't !" 

"Why,  Aunt  Deel,  what  in  the  world  do  you 
mean?"  I  asked. 

"It's  Purvis's  brain  that  does  the  poundin',  I 
guess,"  said  my  uncle.  "It's  kind  o'  got  the  habit. 
It's  a  reg'lar  beetle  brain.  To  hear  him  talk,  ye'd 
think  he  an'  you  could  clean  out  the  hull  Mexican 
nation — barrin'  accidents.  Why,  anybody  would 
suppose  that  yer  enemies  go  to  climbin'  trees  as 
soon  as  they  see  ye  comin'  an'  that  you  pull  the  trees 
up  by  the  roots  to  git  at  'em." 

"A  certain  amount  of  such  deviltry  is  necessary 
to  the  comfort  of  Mr.  Purvis,"  I  remarked.  "If 
there  is  nobody  else  to  take  the  responsibility  for  it 
he  assumes  it  himself.  His  imagination  has  an  in 
tense  craving  for  blood  and  violence.  It's  that  type 
of  American  who,  egged  on  by  the  slave  power,  is 
hurrying  us  into  trouble  with  Mexico." 

Purvis  came  in  presently  with  a  look  in  his  face 
which  betrayed  his  knowledge  of  the  fact  that  all 
the  cobwebs  spun  by  his  fancy  were  now  to  be 
brushed  away.  Still  he  enjoyed  them  while  they 
lasted  and  there  was  a  kind  of  tacit  claim  in  his 
manner  that  there  were  subjects  regarding  which 
no  honest  man  could  be  expected  to  tell  the  truth. 


388       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

As  we  ate  our  dinner  they  told  me  that  an  escaped 
slave  had  come  into  a  neighboring  county  and  ex 
cited  the  people  with  stories  of  the  auction  block  and 
of  negroes  driven  like  yoked  oxen  on  plantations  in 
South  Carolina,  whence  he  had  escaped  on  a  steam 
boat. 

"I  b'lieve  I'm  goin'  to  vote  for  abolition,"  said 
Uncle  Peabody.  "I  wonder  what  Sile  Wright  will 
say  to  that." 

"He'll  probably  advise  against  it,  the  time  isn't 
ripe  for  so  great  a  change,"  was  my  answer.  "He 
thinks  that  the  whole  matter  should  be  left  to  the 
glacial  action  of  time's  forces." 

Indeed  I  had  spoken  the  view  of  the  sounder  men 
of  the  North.  The  subject  filled  them  with  dread 
alarm.  But  the  attitude  of  Uncle  Peabody  was  sig 
nificant.  The  sentiment  in  favor  of  a  change  was 
growing.  It  was  now  to  be  reckoned  with,  for  the 
abolition  party  was  said  to  hold  the  balance  of  power 
in  New  York  and  New  England  and  was  behaving 
itself  like  a  bull  in  a  china  shop. 

After  dinner  I  tried  to  put  on  some  of  my  old 
clothes,  but  found  that  my  nakedness  had  so  ex 
panded  that  they  would  not  cover  it,  so  I  hitched 
my  white  mare  on  the  spring  wagon  and  drove  to  the 
village  for  my  trunk. 

Every  week  day  after  that  I  worked  in  the  fields 
until  the  Senator  arrived  in  Canton  about  the  middle 


I  START  IN  A  LONG  WAY          389 

of  August.  On  one  of  those  happy  days  I  received 
a  letter  from  old  Kate,  dated,  to  my  surprise,  in 
Saratoga.  It  said : 

"DEAR  BARTON  BAYNES — I  thought  I  would  let 
you  know  that  my  father  is  dead.  I  have  come  here 
to  rest  and  have  found  some  work  to  do.  I  am  bet 
ter  now.  Have  seen  Sally.  She  is  very  beautiful 
and  kind.  She  does  not  know  that  I  am  the  old 
witch,  I  have  changed  so.  The  others  do  not  know 
— it  is  better  that  way.  I  think  it  was  the  Lord  that 
brought  me  here.  He  has  a  way  of  taking  care  of 
some  people,  my  boy.  Do  you  remember  when  I 
began  to  call  you  my  boy — you  \vere  very  little.  It 
is  long,  long  ago  since  I  first  saw  you  in  your  father's 
dooryard — you  said  you  were  going  to  mill  on  a  but 
terfly's  back.  You  looked  just  as  I  thought  my  boy 
would  look.  You  gave  me  a  kiss.  What  a  wonder 
ful  gift  it  was  to  me  then!  I  began  to  love  you. 
I  have  no  one  else  to  think  of  now.  I  hope  you 
won't  mind  my  thinking  so  much  of  you. 
"God  bless  you, 

"KATE  FULLERTON." 

I  understood  now  why  the  strong  will  and  singu 
lar  insight  of  this  woman  had  so  often  exercised 
themselves  in  my  behalf.  I  could  not  remember  the 
far  day  and  the  happy  circumstance  of  which  she 
spoke,  but  I  wrote  her  a  letter  which  must  have 
warmed  her  heart  I  am  sure. 

Silas  Wright  arrived  in  Canton  and  drove  up  to 


390      THE  L'IGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

our  home.  He  reached  our  door  at  eight  in  the 
morning  with  his  hound  and  rifle.  He  had  aged 
rapidly  since  I  had  seen  him  last.  His  hair  was  al 
most  white.  There  were  many  new  lines  in  his  face. 
He  seemed  more  grave  and  dignified.  He  did  not 
lapse  into  the  dialect  of  his  fathers  when  he  spoke 
of  the  ancient  pastimes  of  hunting  and  fishing  as  he 
had  been  wont  to  do. 

"Bart,"  he  said  when  the  greetings  were  over, 
"let's  you  and  me  go  and  spend  a  day  in  the  woods. 
I'll  leave  my  man  here  to  help  your  uncle  while 
you're  gone." 

We  went  by  driving  south  a  few  miles  and  tramp 
ing  in  to  the  foot  of  the  still  water  on  our  river — 
a  trail  long  familiar  to  me.  The  dog  left  us  soon 
after  we  took  it  and  began  to  range  over  thick 
wooded  hills.  We  sat  down  among  small,  spire-like 
spruces  at  the  river's  edge  with  a  long  stretch  of 
water  in  sight  while  the  music  of  the  hound's  voice 
came  faintly  to  our  ears  from  the  distant  forest. 

"Oh,  I've  been  dreaming  of  this  for  a  long  time," 
said  the  Senator  as  he  leaned  back  against  a  tree  and 
filled  his  lungs  and  looked  out  upon  the  water,  green 
with  lily-pads  along  the  edge  and  flecked  with  the 
last  of  the  white  blossoms.  "I  believe  you  want  to 
leave  this  lovely  country." 

"I  am  waiting  for  the  call  to  go,"  I  said. 

"Well,  I'm  inclined  to  think  you  are  the  kind  of 


I  START  IN  A  LONG  WAY          391 

man  who  ought  to  go,"  he  answered  almost  sadly. 
"You  are  needed.  I  have  been  waiting  until  we 
should  meet  to  congratulate  you  on  your  behavior 
at  Cobleskill.  I  think  you  have  the  right  spirit — 
that  is  the  all-important  matter.  You  will  encounter 
strange  company  in  the  game  of  politics.  Let  me 
tell  you  a  story." 

He  told  me  many  stories  of  his  life  in  Washing 
ton,  interrupted  by  a  sound  like  that  of  approaching 
footsteps.  We  ceased  talking  and  presently  a  flock 
of  partridges  came  near  us,  pacing  along  over  the 
mat  of  leaves  in  a  leisurely  fashion.  We  sat  per 
fectly  still.  A  young  cock  bird  with  his  beautiful 
ruff  standing  out,  like  the  hair  on  the  back  of  a 
frightened  dog,  strode  toward  us  with  a  comic 
threat  in  his  manner.  It  seemed  as  if  he  were  of 
half  a  mind  to  knock  us  into  the  river.  But  we  sat 
as  still  as  stumps  and  he  spared  us  and  went  on  with 
the  others. 

The  baying  of  the  hound  was  nearer  now.  Sud 
denly  we  saw  a  big  buck  come  down  to  the  shore  of 
the  cove  near  us  and  on  our  side  of  the  stream.  He 
looked  to  right  and  left.  Then  he  made  a  long  leap 
into  the  water  and  waded  slowly  until  it  covered  him. 
He  raised  his  nose  and  laid  his  antlers  back  over 
his  shoulders  and  swam  quietly  down-stream,  his 
nose  just  showing  above  the  water.  His  antlers 
were  like  a  bit  of  driftwood.  If  we  had  not  seen 


392       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

him  take  the  water  his  antlers  might  easily  have 
passed  for  a  bunch  of  dead  sticks.  Soon  the  buck 
slowly  lifted  his  head  and  turned  his  neck  and  looked 
at  both  shores.  Then  very  deliberately  he  resumed 
his  place  under  water  and  went  on.  We  watched 
him  as  he  took  the  farther  shore  below  us  and  made 
off  in  the  woods  again. 

"I  couldn't  shoot  at  him,  it  was  such  a  beautiful 
bit  of  politics,"  said  the  Senator. 

Soon  the  hound  reached  the  cove's  edge  and  swam 
the  river  and  ranged  up  and  down  the  bank  for  half 
an  hour  before  he  found  the  buck's  trail  again. 

"I've  seen  many  a  rascal,  driven  to  water  by  the 
hounds,  go  swimming  away  as  slyly  as  that  buck, 
with  their  horns  in  the  air,  looking  as  innocent  as 
a  bit  of  driftwood.  They  come  in  from  both  shores 
— the  Whig  and  the  Democratic — and  they  are  al 
ways  shot  at  from  one  bank  or  the  other." 

I  remember  it  surprised  me  a  little  to  hear  him 
say  that  they  came  in  from  both  shores. 

"Just  what  do  you  want  to  do?"  he  asked  pres 
ently. 

"I  should  like  to  go  down  to  Washington  with 
you  and  help  you  in  any  way  that  I  can." 

"All  right,  partner — we'll  try  it,"  he  answered 
gravely.  "I  hope  that  I  don't  forget  and  work  you 
as  hard  as  I  work  myself.  It  wouldn't  be  decent. 
I  have  a  great  many  letters  to  write.  I'll  try  think- 


I  START  IN  A  LONG  WAY          393 

ing  out  loud  while  you  take  them  down  in  sound- 
hand.  Then  you  can  draft  them  neatly  and  I'll  sign 
them.  You  have  tact  and  good  manners  and  can  do 
many  of  my  errands  for  me  and  save  me  from  those 
who  have  no  good  reason  for  taking  up  my  time. 
You  will  meet  the  best  people  and  the  worst.  There's 
just  a  chance  that  it  may  come  to  something  worth 
while — who  knows?  You  are  young  yet.  It  will 
be  good  training  and  you  will  witness  the  making 
of  some  history  now  and  then." 

What  elation  I  felt ! 

Again  the  voice  of  the  hound  which  had  been 
ringing  in  the  distant  hills  was  coming  nearer. 

"We  must  keep  watch — another  deer  is  coming," 
said  the  Senator. 

We  had  only  a  moment's  watch  before  a  fine  year 
ling  buck  came  down  to  the  opposite  shore  and  stood 
looking  across  the  river.  The  Senator  raised  his 
rifle  and  fired.  The  buck  fell  in  the  edge  of  the 
water. 

"How  shall  we  get  him  ?"  my  friend  asked. 

"It  will  not  be  difficult,"  I  answered  as  I  began 
to  undress.  Nothing  was  difficult  those  days. 

I  swam  the  river  and  towed  the  buck  across  with 
a  beech  withe  in  his  gambrel  joints.  The  hound 
joined  me  before  I  was  half  across  with  my  burden 
and  nosed  the  carcass  and  swam  on  ahead  yelping 
with  delight. 


394       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

We  dressed  the  deer  and  then  I  had  the  great  joy 
of  carrying  him  on  my  back  two  miles  across  the 
country  to  the  wagon.  The  Senator  wished  to  send 
a  guide  for  the  deer,  but  I  insisted  that  the  carrying 
was  my  privilege. 

"Well,  I  guess  your  big  thighs  and  broad  shoul 
ders  can  stand  it,"  said  he. 

"My  uncle  has  always  said  that  no  man  could  be 
called  a  hunter  until  he  can  go  into  the  woods  with 
out  a  guide  and  kill  a  deer  and  bring  it  out  on  his 
back.  I  want  to  be  able  to  testify  that  I  am  at  least 
partly  qualified." 

"Your  uncle  didn't  say  anything  about  fetching 
the  deer  across  a  deep  river  without  a  boat,  did  he?" 
Mr.  Wright  asked  me  with  a  smile. 

Leaves  of  the  beeches,  maples  and  bass  woods — 
yellowed  by  frost — hung  like  tiny  lanterns,  glowing 
with  noonday  light,  above  the  dim  forest-aisle  which 
we  traveled. 

The  sun  was  down  when  we  got  to  the  clearing. 

"What  a  day  it  has  been !"  said  Mr.  Wright  when 
we  were  seated  in  the  wagon  at  last  with  the  hound 
and  the  deer's  head  between  his  feet  and  mine. 

"One  of  the  best  in  my  life,"  I  answered  with  a 
joy  in  my  heart  the  like  of  which  I  have  rarely 
known  in  these  many  years  that  have  come  to  me. 

We  rode  on  in  silence  with  the  calls  of  the  swamp 


I  START  ix  A  L'ONG  WAY          395 

robin  and  the  hermit  thrush  ringing  in  our  ears  as 
the  night  fell. 

"It's  a  good  time  to  think,  and  there  we  take  dif 
ferent  roads,"  said  my  friend.  "You  will  turn  into 
the  future  and  I  into  the  past." 

"I've  been  thinking  about  your  uncle,"  he  said 
by  and  by.  "He  is  one  of  the  greatest  men  I  have 
ever  known.  You  knew  of  that  foolish  gossip  about 
him — didn't  you?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered. 

"Well,  now,  he's  gone  about  his  business  the  same 
as  ever  and  showed  by  his  life  that  it  couldn't  be 
true.  Not  a  word  out  of  him!  But  Dave  Ramsey 
fell  sick — down  on  the  flat  last  winter.  By  and  by 
his  children  were  crying  for  bread  and  the  poor- 
master  was  going  to  take  charge  of  them.  Well, 
who  should  turn  up  there,  just  in  the  nick  of  time, 
but  Delia  and  Peabody  Baynes.  They  fed  those 
children  all  winter  and  kept  them  in  clothes  so  that 
they  could  go  to  school.  The  strange  thing  about  it 
is  this :  it  was  Dave  Ramsey  who  really  started  that 
story.  He  got  up  in  church  the  other  night  and 
confessed  his  crime.  His  conscience  wouldn't  let 
him  keep  it.  He  said  that  he  had  not  seen  Peabody 
Baynes  on  that  road  the  day  the  money  was  lost  but 
had  only  heard  that  he  was  there.  He  knew  now 
that  he  couldn't  have  been  there.  Gosh  t'almighty ! 


1*96       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

as  your  uncle  used  to  say  when  there  was  nothing 
else  to  be  said." 

It  touched  me  to  the  soul — this  long-delayed  vindi 
cation  of  my  beloved  Uncle  Peabody. 

The  Senator  ate  supper  with  us  and  sent  his  hired 
man  out  for  his  horse  and  buggy.  When  he  had  put 
on  his  overcoat  and  was  about  to  go  he  turned  to  my 
uncle  and  said : 

"Peabody  Baynes,  if  I  have  had  any  success  in  the 
world  it  is  because  I  have  had  the  exalted  honor  and 
consciousness  that  I  represented  men  like  you." 

He  left  us  and  we  sat  down  by  the  glowing  can 
dles.  Soon  I  told  them  what  Ramsey  had  done. 
There  was  a  moment  of  silence.  Uncle  Peabody 
rose  and  went  to  the  water-pail  for  a  drink. 

"Bart,  I  believe  I'll  plant  corn  on  that  ten-acre 
lot  next  spring — darned  if  I  don't,"  he  said  as  he 
returned  to  his  chair. 

None  of  us  ever  spoke  of  the  matter  again  to  my 
knowledge. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

ON  THE  SUMMIT 

MY  mental  assets  would  give  me  a  poor 
rating  I  presume  in  the  commerce  of 
modern  scholarship  when  I  went  to 
Washington  that  autumn  with  Senator  and  Mrs. 
Wright.  Still  it  was  no  smattering  that  I  had,  but 
rather  a  few  broad  areas  of  knowledge  which  were 
firmly  in  my  possession.  I  had  acquired,  quite  by 
myself  since  leaving  the  academy,  a  fairly  serviceable 
reading  knowledge  of  French;  I  had  finished  the 
^Eneid;  I  had  read  the  tragedies  of  Shakespeare 
and  could  repeat  from  them  many  striking  passages ; 
I  had  read  the  histories  of  Abbott  and  the  works  of 
Washington  Irving  and  certain  of  the  essays  of 
Carlyle  and  Macaulay.  My  best  asset  was  not  men 
tal  but  spiritual,  if  I  may  be  allowed  to  say  it,  in  all 
modesty,  for,  therein  I  claim  no  special  advantage, 
saving,  possibly,  an  unusual  strength  of  character  in 
my  aunt  and  uncle.  Those  days  the  candles  were 
lighting  the  best  trails  of  knowledge  all  over  the 
land.  '  Never  has  the  general  spirit  of  this  republic 
been  so  high  and  admirable  as  then  and  a  little  later. 

397 


398      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

It  was  to  speak,  presently,  in  the  immortal  voices  of 
Whittier,  Emerson,  Whitman,  Greeley  and  Lincoln. 
The  dim  glow  of  the  candles  had  entered  their  souls 
and  out  of  them  came  a  light  that  filled  the  land 
and  was  seen  of  all  men.  What  became  of  this 
mighty  spirit  of  democracy?  My  friend,  it  broke 
down  and  came  near  its  death  in  a  long,  demoraliz 
ing  war  which  gave  to  our  young  men  a  thorough 
four-year  course  in  the  ancient  school  of  infamy. 

The  railroads  on  which  we  traveled  from  Utica, 
the  great  cities  through  which  we  passed,  were  a 
wonder  and  an  inspiration  to  me.  I  was  awed  by  the 
grandeur  of  Washington  itself.  I  took  lodgings 
with  the  Senator  and  his  wife. 

"Now,  Bart,"  said  he,  when  we  had  arrived,  "I'm 
going  to  turn  you  loose  here  for  a  little  while  before 
I  put  harness  on  you.  Go  about  for  a  week  or  so 
and  get  the  lay  of  the  land  and  the  feel  of  it.  Mrs. 
Wright  will  be  your  guide  until  the  general  situa 
tion  has  worked  its  way  into  your  consciousness." 

It  seemed  to  me  that  there  was  not  room  enough  in 
my  consciousness  for  the  great  public  buildings  and 
the  pictures  and  the  statues  and  the  vast  machinery 
of  the  government.  Beauty  and  magnitude  have  a 
wonderful  effect  when  they  spring  fresh  upon  the 
vision  of  a  youth  out  of  the  back  country.  I  sang  of 
the  look  of  them  in  my  letters  and  soon  I  began  to 
think  about  them  and  imperfectly  to  understand 


ON  THE  SUMMIT  399 

them.      They  had  their  epic,  lyric  and  dramatic 
stages  in  my  consciousness. 

One  afternoon  we  went  to  hear  Senator  Wright 
speak.  He  was  to  ans\ver  Calhoun  on  a  detail  of  the 
banking  laws.  The  floor  and  galleries  were  filled. 
With  what  emotion  I  saw  him  rise  and  begin  his 
argument  as  all  ears  bent  to  hear  him!  He  aimed 
not  at  popular  sentiments  in  highly  finished  rhetoric, 
as  did  Webster,  to  be  quoted  in  the  school-books  and 
repeated  on  every  platform.  But  no  words  of  mine 
— and  I  have  used  many  in  the  effort — are  able  to 
convey  a  notion  of  the  masterful  ease  and  charm 
of  his  manner  on  the  floor  of  the  Senate  or  of  the 
singular  modesty,  courtesy,  aptness  and  simplicity 
of  his  words  as  they  fell  from  his  lips.  There  were 
the  thunderous  Webster,  the  grandeur  of  whose  sen 
tences  no  American  has  equaled;  the  agile-minded 
Clay,  whose  voice  was  like  a  silver  clarion ;  the  far- 
seeing,  fiery  Calhoun,  of  "the  swift  sword" — most 
formidable  in  debate — but  I  was  soon  to  learn  that 
neither  nor  all  of  these  men — gifted  of  heaven  so 
highly — could  cope  with  the  suave,  incisive,  conver 
sational  sentences  of  Wright,  going  straight  to  the 
heart  of  the  subject  and  laying  it  bare  to  his  hearers. 
That  was  what  people  were  saying  as  we  left  the 
Senate  chamber,  late  in  the  evening;  that,  indeed, 
was  what  they  were  always  saying  after  they  had 
heard  him  answer  an  adversary. 


400      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

He  had  a  priceless  and  unusual  talent  for  avoiding 
school-reader  English  and  the  arts  of  declamation 
and  for  preparing  a  difficult  subject  to  enter  the 
average  brain.  The  underlying  secret  of  his  power 
was  soon  apparent  to  me.  He  stood  always  for 
that  great  thing  in  America  which,  since  then,  Whit 
man  has  called  "the  divine  aggregate,"  and  seeing 
clearly  how  every  measure  would  be  likely  to  affect 
its  welfare,  he  followed  the  compass.  It  had  led 
him  to  a  height  of  power  above  all  others  and  was  to 
lead  him  unto  the  loneliest  summit  of  accomplish 
ment  in  American  history. 

Not  much  in  my  term  of  service  there  is  important 
to  this  little  task  of  mine.  I  did  my  work  well,  if  I 
may  believe  the  Senator,  and  grew  familiar  with  the 
gentle  and  ungentle  arts  of  the  politician. 

One  great  fact  grew  in  magnitude  and  sullen  por 
tent  as  the  months  passed :  the  gigantic  slave-holding 
interests  of  the  South  viewed  with  growing  alarm 
the  spread  of  abolition  sentiment.  Subtly,  quietly 
and  naturally  they  were  feeling  for  the  means  to  de 
fend  and  increase  their  power.  Straws  were  coming 
to  the  surface  in  that  session  which  betrayed  this 
deep  undercurrent  of  purpose.  We  felt  it  and  the 
Senator  was  worried  I  knew,  but  held  his  peace.  He 
knew  how  to  keep  his  opinions  until  the  hour  had 
struck  that  summoned  them  to  service.  The  Senator 


ON  THE  SUMMIT  401 

never  played  with  his  lance.  By  and  by  Spencer 
openly  sounded  the  note  of  conflict. 

The  most  welcome  year  of  my  life  dawned  on  the 
first  of  January,  1844.  I  remember  that  I  arose 
before  daylight  that  morning  and  dressed  and  went 
out  on  the  street  to  welcome  it. 

I  had  less  than  six  months  to  wait  for  that  day 
appointed  by  Sally.  I  had  no  doubt  that  she  would 
be  true  to  me.  I  had  had  my  days  of  fear  and  de 
pression,  but  always  my  sublime  faith  in  her  came 
back  in  good  time. 

Oh,  yes,  indeed,  Washington  was  a  fair  of  beauty 
and  gallantry  those  days.  I  saw  it  all.  I  have  spent 
many  years  in  the  capital  and  I  tell  you  the  girls 
of  that  time  had  manners  and  knew  how  to  wear 
their  clothes,  but  again  the  magic  of  old  memories 
kept  my  lady  on  her  throne.  There  was  one  of  them 
• — just  one  of  those  others  who,  I  sometimes  thought, 
was  almost  as  graceful  and  charming  and  noble- 
hearted  as  Sally,  and  she  liked  me  I  know,  but  the 
ideal  of  my  youth  glowed  in  the  light  of  the  early 
morning,  so  to  speak,  and  was  brighter  than  all 
others.  Above  all,  I  had  given  my  word  to  Sally 
and — well,  you  know,  the  old-time  Yankee  of  good 
stock  was  fairly  steadfast,  whatever  else  may  be  said 
of  him — often  a  little  too  steadfast,  as  were  Ben 
Grimshaw  and  Squire  Fullerton. 


402       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

The  Senator  and  I  went  calling  that  New  Year's 
day.  We  saw  all  the  great  people  and  some  of  them 
were  more  cheerful  than  they  had  a  right  to  be.  It 
was  a  weakness  of  the  time.  I  shall  not  go  into  de 
tails  for  fear  of  wandering  too  far  from  my  main 
road.  Let  me  step  aside  a  moment  to  say,  however, 
that  there  were  two  clouds  in  the  sky  of  the  Wash 
ington  society  of  those  days.  One  was  strong  drink 
and  the  other  was  the  crude,  rough-coated,  aggres 
sive  democrat  from  the  frontiers  of  the  West.  These 
latter  were  often  seen  in  the  holiday  regalia  of  farm 
or  village  at  fashionable  functions.  Some  of  them 
changed  slowly  and,  by  and  by,  reached  the  stage  of 
white  linen  and  diamond  breast-pins  and  waistcoats 
of  figured  silk.  It  must  be  said,  however,  that  their 
motives  were  always  above  their  taste. 

The  winter  wore  away  slowly  in  hard  work.  Mr. 
Van  Buren  came  down  to  see  the  Senator  one  day 
from  his  country  seat  on  the  Hudson.  The  Ex-pres 
ident  had  been  solicited  to  accept  the  nomination 
again.  I  know  that  Senator  Wright  strongly  fa 
vored  the  plan  but  feared  that  the  South  would  de 
feat  him  in  convention,  it  being  well  known  that  Van 
Buren  was  opposed  to  the  annexation  of  Texas — a 
pet  project  of  the  slave-holders.  However,  he  ad 
vised  his  friend  to  make  a  fight  for  the  nomination 
and  this  the  latter  resolved  to  do.  Thenceforward 
until  middle  May  I  gave  my  time  largely  to  the  in- 


ON  THE  SUMMIT  403 

diting  of  letters  for  the  Senator  in  Van  Buren's  be 
half. 

The  time  appointed  for  the  convention  in  Balti 
more  drew  near.  One  day  the  Senator  received  an 
intimation  that  he  would  be  put  in  nomination  if 
Van  Buren  failed.  Immediately  he  wrote  to  Judge 
Fine,  of  Ogdensburg,  chairman  of  the  delegation 
from  the  northern  district  of  New  York,  forbidding 
such  use  of  his  name  on  the  ground  that  his  acquies 
cence  would  involve  disloyalty  to  his  friend  the  Ex- 
president. 

He  gave  me  leave  to  go  to  the  convention  on  my 
way  home  to  meet  Sally.  I  had  confided  to  Mrs 
Wright  the  details  of  my  little  love  affair — I  had  to 
— and  she  had  shown  a  tender,  sympathetic  interest 
in  the  story. 

The  Senator  had  said  to  me  one  day,  with  a  gentle 
smile : 

"Bart,  you  have  business  in  Canton,  I  believe, 
with  which  trifling  matters  like  the  choice  of  a  presi 
dent  and  the  Mexican  question  can  not  be  permitted 
to  interfere.  You  must  take  time  to  spend  a  day  or 
two  at  the  convention  in  Baltimore  on  your  way. 
.  .  .  Report  to  our  friend  Fine,  who  will  look 
after  your  comfort  there.  The  experience  ought  to 
be  useful  to  a  young  man  who,  I  hope,  will  have 
work  to  do  in  future  conventions." 

I  took   the   stage   to   Baltimore   next   day — the 


404      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

twenty-sixth  of  May.  The  convention  thrilled  me — 
the  flags,  the  great  crowd,  the  bands,  the  songs,  the 
speeches,  the  cheering — I  see  and  hear  it  all  in  my 
talk.  The  uproar  lasted  for  twenty  minutes  when 
Van  Buren' s  name  was  put  in  nomination. 

Then  the  undercurrent!  The  slave  interest  of 
the  South  was  against  him  as  Wright  had  foreseen. 
The  deep  current  of  its  power  had  undermined  cer 
tain  of  the  northern  and  western  delegations.  Osten 
sibly  for  Van  Buren  and  stubbornly  casting  their 
ballots  for  him,  they  had  voted  for  the  two-thirds 
rule,  which  had  accomplished  his  defeat  before  the 
balloting  began.  It  continued  for  two  days  without 
a  choice.  The  enemy  stood  firm.  After  adjourn 
ment  that  evening  many  of  the  Van  Buren  delegates 
were  summoned  to  a  conference.  I  attended  it  with 
Judge  Fine. 

The  Ex-president  had  withdrawn  and  requested 
his  friends  in  the  convention  to  vote  for  Silas 
Wright.  My  emotions  can  be  more  readily  imagined 
than  described  when  I  heard  the  shouts  of  enthusi 
asm  which  greeted  my  friend's  name.  Tears  began 
to  roll  down  my  cheeks.  Judge  Fine  lifted  his  hand. 
When  order  was  at  last  restored  he  began : 

"Gentlemen,  as  a  friend  of  the  learned  Senator 
and  as  a  resident  of  the  county  which  is  the  proud 
possessor  of  his  home,  your  enthusiasm  has  a  wel 
come  sound  to  me ;  but  I  happen  to  know  that  Sen- 


ON  THE  SUMMIT  405 

ator  Wright  will  not  allow  his  name  to  go  before  the 
convention." 

He  read  the  letter  of  which  I  knew. 

Mr.  Benjamin  F.  Butler  then  said : 

"When  that  letter  was  written  Senator  Wright 
was  not  aware  that  Mr.  Van  Buren's  nomination 
could  not  be  accomplished,  nor  was  he  aware  that 
his  own  nomination  would  be  the  almost  unanimous 
wish  of  this  convention.  I  have  talked  with  the  lead 
ing  delegates  from  Missouri  and  Virginia  to-day. 
They  say  that  he  can  be  nominated  by  acclamation. 
Is  it  possible  that  he — a  strong  party  man — can 
resist  this  unanimous  call  of  the  party  with  whose 
help  he  has  won  immortal  fame  ?  No,  it  is  not  so.  It 
can  not  be  so.  We  must  dispatch  a  messenger  to 
him  by  horse  at  once  who  shall  take  to  him  from  his 
friend  Judge  Fine  a  frank  statement  of  the  imperi 
ous  demand  of  this  convention  and  a  request  that  he 
telegraph  a  withdrawal  of  his  letter  in  the  morning." 

The  suggestion  was  unanimously  approved  and 
within  an  hour,  mounted  on  one  of  the  best  horses 
in  Maryland — so  his  groom  informed  me — I  was 
on  my  way  to  Washington  with  the  message  of 
Judge  Fine  in  my  pocket.  Yes,  I  had  two  days  to 
spare  on  my  schedule  of  travel  and  reckoned  that, 
by  returning  to  Baltimore  next  day  I  should  reach 
Canton  in  good  time. 

It  was  the  kind  of  thing  that  only  a  lithe,  supple, 


406      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

strong-hearted  lad  such  as  I  was  in  the  days  of  my 
youth,  could  relish — speeding  over  a  dark  road  by 
the  light  of  the  stars  and  a  half-moon,  with  a  horse 
that  loved  to  kick  up  a  wind.  My  brain  was  in  a 
fever,  for  the  notion  had  come  to  me  that  I  was 
making  history. 

The  lure  of  fame  and  high  place  hurried  me  on. 
With  the  Senator  in  the  presidential  chair  I  should 
be  well  started  in  the  highway  of  great  success. 
Then  Mr.  H.  Dunkelberg  might  think  me  better 
than  the  legacy  of  Benjamin  Grimshaw.  A  relay 
awaited  me  twenty-three  miles  down  the  road. 

Well,  I  reached  Washington  very  sore,  but  other 
wise  in  good  form,  soon  after  daybreak.  I  was 
trembling  with  excitement  when  I  put  my  horse  in 
the  stable  and  rang  the  bell  at  our  door.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  I  was  crossing  the  divide  between  big  and 
little  things.  A  few  steps  more  and  I  should  be 
looking  down  into  the  great  valley  of  the  future. 
Yet,  now  that  I  was  there,  I  began  to  lose  confidence. 

The  butler  opened  the  door. 

Yes,  the  Senator  was  up  and  had  just  returned 
from  a  walk  and  was  in  his  study.  I  found  him 
there. 

"Well,  Bart,  how  does  this  happen?"  he  asked. 

"It's  important  business,"  I  said,  as  I  presented 
the  letter. 

Something  in  his  look  and  manner  as  he  calmly 


ON  THE  SUMMIT  407 

adjusted  his  glasses  and  read  the  letter  of  Judge 
Fine  brought  the  blood  to  my  face.  It  seemed  to 
puncture  my  balloon,  so  to  speak,  and  I  was  falling 
toward  the  earth  and  so  swiftly  my  head  swam.  He 
laid  the  letter  on  his  desk  and,  without  looking  up 
and  as  coolly  as  if  he  were  asking  for  the  change  of 
a  dollar,  queried : 

"Well,  Bart,  what  do  you  think  we  had  better  do 
about  it?" 

"I — I  was  hoping — you — you  would  take  it,"  I 
stammered. 

"That's  because  the  excitement  of  the  convention 
is  on  you,"  he  answered.  "Let  us  look  at  the  com 
pass.  They  have  refused  to  nominate  Mr.  Van  Buren 
because  he  is  opposed  to  the  annexation  of  Texas. 
On  that  subject  the  will  of  the  convention  is  now 
clear.  It  is  possible  that  they  would  nominate  me. 
We  don't  know  about  that,  we  never  shall  know. 
If  they  did,  and  I  accepted,  what  would  be  expected 
of  me  is  also  clear.  They  would  expect  me  to  aban 
don  my  principles  and  that  course  of  conduct  which 
I  conceive  to  be  best  for  the  country.  Therefore  I 
should  have  to  accept  it  under  false  pretenses  and 
take  their  yoke  upon  me.  Would  you  think  the 
needle  pointed  that  way  ?" 

"No,"  I  answered. 

Immediately  he  turned  to  his  desk  and  wrote  the 
telegram  which  fixed  his  place  in  history.  It  said  no. 


408       THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

Into  the  lives  of  few  men  has  such  a  moment 
fallen.  I  am  sure  the  Lord  God  must  have  thought 
it  worth  a  thousand  years  of  the  world's  toil.  It  was 
that  moment  in  the  life  of  a  great  leader  when  Satan 
shows  him  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth  and  their  glory. 
I  looked  at  him  with  a  feeling  of  awe.  What 
sublime  calmness  and  serenity  was  in  his  face !  As 
if  it  were  a  mere  detail  in  the  work  of  the  day,  and 
without  a  moment's  faltering,  he  had  declined  a 
crown,  for  he  would  surely  have  been  nominated  and 
elected.  He  rose  and  stood  looking  out  of  the  open 
window.  Always  I  think  of  him  standing  there  with 
the  morning  sunlight  falling  upon  his  face  and 
shoulders.  He  had  observed  my  emotion  and  I  think 
it  had  touched  him  a  little.  There  was  a  moment  of 
silence.  A  curious  illusion  came  to  me  then,  for  it 
seemed  as  if  I  heard  the  sound  of  distant  music. 
Looking  thoughtfully  out  of  the  window  he  asked : 

"Bart,  do  you  know  when  our  first  fathers  turned 
out  of  the  trail  of  the  beast  and  found  the  long  road 
of  humanity?  I  think  it  was  when  they  discovered 
the  compass  in  their  hearts." 

So  now  at  last  we  have  come  to  that  high  and 
lonely  place,  where  we  may  look  back  upon  the  toil 
some,  adventurous  way  we  have  traveled  with  the 
aid  of  the  candle  and  the  compass.  Now  let  us  stop 
a  moment  to  rest  and  to  think.  How  sweet  the  air 
is  here !  The  night  is  falling.  I  see  the  stars  in  the 


ON  THB  SUMMIT  409 

sky.  Just  below  me  is  the  valley  of  Eternal  Silence. 
You  will  understand  my  haste  now.  I  have  sought 
only  to  do  justice  to  my  friend  and  to  give  my  coun 
try  a  name,  long  neglected,  but  equal  in  glory  to 
those  of  Washington  and  Lincoln. 

Come,  let  us  take  one  last  look  together  down  the 
road  we  have  traveled,  now  dim  in  the  evening 
shadows.  Scattered  along  it  are  the  little  houses  of 
the  poor  of  which  I  have  written.  See  the  lights  in 
the  windows — the  lights  that  are  shining  into  the 
souls  of  the  young — the  eager,  open,  expectant,  wel 
coming  souls  of  the  young! — and  the  light  carries 
many  things,  but  best  of  all  a  respect  for  the  old, 
unchanging  way  of  the  compass.  After  all  that  is 
the  end  and  aim  of  the  whole  matter — believe  me. 

My  life  has  lengthened  into  these  days  when  most 
of  our  tasks  are  accomplished  by  machinery.  We 
try  to  make  men  by  the  thousand,  in  vast  educational 
machines,  and  no  longer  by  the  one  as  of  old.  It 
was  the  loving,  forgiving,  forbearing,  patient,  cease 
less  toil  of  mother  and  father  on  the  tender  soul  of 
childhood,  which  quickened  that  inextinguishable 
sense  of  responsibility  to  God  and  man  in  these  peo 
ple  whom  I  now  leave  to  the  judgment  of  my  coun 
trymen. 

I  have  lived  to  see  the  ancient  plan  of  kingcraft, 
for  self-protection,  coming  back  into  the  world.  It 
demands  that  the  will  and  conscience  of  every  indi- 

?  ' 


410      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

vidual  shall  be  regulated  and  controlled  by  some  con 
ceited  prince,  backed  by  an  army.  It  can  not  fail,  I 
foresee,  to  accomplish  such  devastation  in  the  hu 
man  spirit  as  shall  imperil  the  dearest  possession  of 
man. 

If  one  is  to  follow  the  compass  he  can  have  but 
one  king — his  God. 

I  am  near  the  end.  I  rode  back  to  Baltimore  that 
forenoon.  They  had  nominated  Mr.  Polk,  of  Ten 
nessee,  for  president  and  Silas  Wright  for  vice- 
president,  the  latter  by  acclamation.  I  knew  that 
Wright  would  decline  the  honor,  as  he  did. 

I  hurried  northward  to  keep  my  appointment  with 
Sally.  The  boats  were  slowed  by  fog.  At  Albany 
I  was  a  day  behind  my  schedule.  I  should  have  only 
an  hour's  leeway  if  the  boats  on  the  upper  lakes  and 
the  stage  from  Plattsburg  were  on  time.  I  feared  to 
trust  them.  So  I  caught  the  west-bound  train  and 
reached  Utica  three  hours  late.  There  I  bought  a 
good  horse  and  his  saddle  and  bridle  and  hurried  up 
the  north  road.  When  he  was  near  spent  I  traded 
him  for  a  well-knit  Morgan  mare  up  in  the  little 
village  of  Sandy  Creek.  Oh,  I  knew  a  good  horse 
as  well  as  the  next  man  and  a  better  one  than  she  I 
never  owned — never.  I  was  back  in  my  saddle  at  six 
in  the  afternoon  and  stopped  for  feed  and  an  hour's 
rest  at  nine  and  rode  on  through  the  night.  I 


ON  THE  SUMMIT  411 

4 

reached  the  hamlet  of  Richville  soon  after  daybreak 
and  put  out  for  a  rest  of  two  hours.  I  could  take  it 
easy  then.  At  seven  o'clock  the  mare  and  I  started 
again,  well  fed  and  eager  to  go  on. 

It  was  a  summer  morning  that  shortens  the  road 
— even  that  of  the  young  lover.  Its  air  was  sweet 
with  the  breath  of  the  meadows.  The  daisies  and 
the  clover  and  the  cornflowers  and  the  wild  roses 
seemed  to  be  waving  a  welcome  to  me  and  the  thorn 
trees — shapely  ornament  of  my  native  hills — were  in 
blossom.  A  cloud  of  pigeons  swept  across  the  blue 
deep  above  my  head.  The  great  choir  of  the  fields 
sang  to  me — bobolinks,  song  sparrows,  meadow- 
larks,  bluebirds,  warblers,  wrens,  and  far  awray  in 
the  edge  of  a  spruce  thicket  I  heard  the  flute  of  the 
white-throated  sparrow  in  this  refrain: 


..    Jf     I   V      *>  I 


When,  years  later,  I  heard  the  wedding  march  in 
Lohengrin  I  knew  where  Wagner  had  got  his  theme. 

I  bathed  at  a  brook  in  the  woods  and  put  on  a 
clean  silk  shirt  and  tie  out  of  my  saddlebags.  I  rode 
slowly  then  to  the  edge  of  the  village  of  Canton  and 
turned  at  the  bridge  and  took  the  river  road, 
although  I  had  time  to  spare.  How  my  heart  was 
beating  as  I  neared  the  familiar  scene!  The  river 
slowed  its  pace  there,  like  a  discerning  traveler,  to 


412      THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEAKING 

enjoy  the  beauty  of  its  shores.  Smooth  and  silent 
was  the  water  and  in  it  were  the  blue  of  the  sky  and 
the  feathery  shadow-spires  of  cedar  and  tamarack 
and  the  reflected  blossoms  of  iris  and  meadow  rue. 
It  was  a  lovely  scene. 

There  was  the  pine,  but  where  was  my  lady?  I 
dismounted  and  tied  my  mare  and  looked  at  my 
watch.  It  lacked  twenty  minutes  of  eleven.  She 
would  come — I  had  no  doubt  of  it.  I  washed  my 
hands  and  face  and  neck  in  the  cool  water.  Sud 
denly  I  heard  a  voice  I  knew  singing :  Barney  Leave 
the  Girls  Alone.  I  turned  and  saw — your  mother, 
my  son.*  She  was  in  the  stem  of  a  birch  canoe,  all 
dressed  in  white  with  roses  in  her  hair.  I  raised  my 
hat  and  she  threw  a  kiss  at  me.  Old  Kate  sat  in  the 
bow  waving  her  handkerchief.  They  stopped  and 
Sally  asked  in  a  tone  of  playful  seriousness : 

"Young  man,  why  have  you  come  here?" 

"To  get  you,"  I  answered. 

"What  do  you  want  of  me?"  She  was  looking 
at  her  face  in  the  water. 

"I  want  to  marry  you,"  I  answered  bravely. 

"Then  you  may  help  me  ashore  if  you  please.  I 
am  in  my  best,  white  slippers  and  you  are  to  be  very 
careful." 

Beautiful!  She  was  the  spirit  of  the  fields  of 
June  then  and  always. 

I  helped  her  ashore  and  held  her  in  my  arms  and, 

*  These  kst  lines  were  dictated  to  his  son. 


ON  THE  SUMMIT  413 

you  know,  the  lips  have  a  way  of  speaking  then  in 
the  old,  convincing,  final  argument  of  love.  They 
left  no  doubt  in  our  hearts,  my  son. 

"When  do  you  wish  to  marry  me?"  she  whispered. 

"As  soon  as  possible,  but  my  pay  is  only  sixty  dol 
lars  a  month  now." 

"We  shall  make  it  do,"  she  answered.  "My 
mother  and  father  and  your  aunt  and  uncle  and  the 
Rackets  and  the  minister  and  a  number  of  our 
friends  are  coming  in  a  fleet  of  boats." 

"We  are  prepared  either  for  a  picnic  or  a  wed 
ding,"  was  the  whisper  of  Kate. 

"Let's  make  it  both,"  I  proposed  to  Sally. 

"Surely  there  couldn't  be  a  better  place  than  here 
under  the  big  pine — it's  so  smooth  and  soft  and 
shady,"  said  she, 

"Nor  could  there  be  a  better  day  or  better  com 
pany,"  I  urged,  for  I  was  not  sure  that  she  would 
agree. 

The  boats  came  along.  Sally  and  I  waved  a  wel 
come  from  the  bank  and  she  merrily  proclaimed : 

"It's  to  be  a  wedding." 

Then  a  cheer  from  the  boats,  in  which  I  joined. 

I  shall  never  forget  how,  when  the  company  had 
landed  and  the  greetings  were  over,  Uncle  Peabody 
approached  your  mother  and  said : 

"Say,  Sally,  I'm  goin'  to  plant  a  kiss  on  both  o' 
them  red  cheeks  o'  yours,  an'  do  it  deliberate,  too." 

He  did  it  and  so  did  Aunt  Deel  and  old  Kate,  and 


41 4»      THE  EIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

I  think  that,  next  to  your  mother  and  me,  they  were 
the  happiest  people  at  the  wedding. 

There  is  a  lonely  grave  up  in  the  hills — that  of 
the  stranger  who  died  long  ago  on  Rattleroad.  One 
day  I  found  old  Kate  sitting  beside  it  and  on  a 
stone  lately  erected  there  was  the  name,  Enoch  Rone. 

"It  is  very  sorrowful,"  she  whispered.  "He  was 
trying  to  find  me  when  he  died." 

We  walked  on  in  silence  while  I  recalled  the  cir 
cumstances.  How  strange  that  those  tales  of  blood 
and  lawless  daring  which  Kate  had  given  to  Amos 
Grimshaw  had  led  to  the  slaying  of  her  own  son! 
Yet,  so  it  happened,  and  the  old  wives  will  tell  you 
the  story  up  there  in  the  hills. 

The  play  ends  just  as  the  night  is  falling  with 
Kate  and  me  entering  the  little  home,  so  familiar 
now,  where  she  lives  and  is  ever  welcome  with  Aunt 
Deel  and  Uncle  Peabody.  The  latter  meets  us  at  the 
door  and  is  saying  in  a  cheerful  voice : 

"Come  in  to  supper,  you  rovers.  How  solemn  ye 
look!  Say,  if  you  expect  Sally  and  me  to  do  all  the 
laughin'  here  you're  mistaken.  There's  a  lot  of  it 
to  be  done  right  now,  an'  it's  time  you  j'ined  in. 
We  ain't  done  nothin'  but  laugh  since  we  got  up,  an' 
we're  in  need  o'  help.  What's  the  matter,  Kate? 
Look  up  at  the  light  in  God's  winder.  How  bright 
it  shines  to-night !  When  I  feel  bad  I  always  look 
at  the  stars." 

THE  END 


EPILOGUE 

Wanted  by  all  the  people — 

A  servant 

Born  of  those  who  serve  and  aspire 

Who  has  known  want  and  trouble 

And  all  that  passes  in  The  Little  House  of  the  Poor: 

Lonely  thought,  counsels  of  love  and  prudence, 

The  happiness  born  of  a  penny, 

The  need  of  the  strange  and  mighty  dollar 

And  the  love  of  things  above  all  its  power  of 

measurement. 

The  dreams  that  come  of  weariness  and  the  hard 

bed, 

The  thirst  for  learning  as  a  Great  Deliverer. 
Who  has  felt  in  his  heart  the  weakness  and  the 
strength  of  his  brothers 

And,  above  all,  the  divinity  that  dwells  in  them. 
Who,  therefore,  shall  have  faith  in  men  and  women 
And  knowledge  of  their  wrongs  and  needs  and  of 
their  proneness  to  error. 

Humbly  must  he  listen  to  their  voice,  as  one  who 
knows  that  God  will  often  speak  in  it, 
And  have  charity  even  for  his  own  judgments. 
Thus  removed,  far  removed  from  the  conceit  and 
vanity  of  Princes 

Shall  he  know  how  great  is  the  master  he  has  chosen 
to  serve. 


THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

A  Review  in  The  New  York  Times  Literary  Supplement 

VERY  different  in  method  and  purpose  from  any 
of  his  previous  stones,  Mr.  Bacheller's  new  novel 
must  be  accounted,  at  the  outset,  as  quite  the  most 
important  piece  of  fiction  he  has  put  forth.  In  its 
own  way  it  is  as  good  as  his  famous  North  Country 
character  studies,  of  which  "Eben  Holden"  was  the 
first,  and,  perhaps,  the  best  known  and  as  skillfully 
done  as  his  series  of  dashing,  splashing,  story-car 
toons  of  which  "Keeping  Up  With  Lizzie"  was  so 
widely  read  as  to  cause  its  title  to  become  a  national 
catchword.  But  its  way  is  so  different  from  either 
of  these  lines  of  story-telling  that  comparison  with 
them  is  unfair  to  both  the  new  and  the  old. 

This  new  story  is  an  interpretation  of  the  rude 
and  simple  but  high-souled  life  of  the  youthful  years 
of  this  nation  and  a  tribute  to  its  high  significance 
in  the  making  of  American  ideals — a  kind  of  fiction 
of  which  American  literature  has  far  too  little.  Mr. 
Bacheller  has  written  sympathetically  of  that  life, 
and  understandingly,  but  without  any  of  that  com 
miserating  superiority  with  which  a  more  cushioned 
and  sophisticated  age  is  too  prone  to  look  back  upon 
the  life  of  its  grandparents.  He  is  not  at  all  sorry 
for  his  toiling  farmers  of  Northern  New  York 
three-quarters  of  a  century  ago  because  they  did  not 


THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

have  steam  heat  and  concrete  pavements  and  straw 
berries  in  January  and  electric  lights  and  a  theatre 
around  the  corner.  Rather,  his  mental  attitude  is 
that  of  doffed  hat  and  bowed  head,  because  of  the 
power  of  the  spirit  that  was  in  them,  a  power  great 
enough  to  send  the  "light  in  the  clearing"  on  down 
through  generation  after  generation.  His  title-page 
bears  a  line  from  Proverbs:  "The  spirit  of  man  is 
the  candle  of  the  Lord."  And  that,  in  brief,  is  the 
meaning  of  his  tale  about  these  unpretentious  men 
and  women  who  exercised  so  much  fine  and  noble 
influence. 

But,  first  and  foremost,  "The  Light  in  the  Clear 
ing"  is  an  interesting  story,  real  and  vital  in  its 
presentation  of  character  and  incident,  that  moves 
entertainingly  through  varied  scenes,  sometimes 
with  merriment  and  jollity,  sometimes  with  peaceful 
happiness,  sometimes  skirting  the  coasts  of  tragedy, 
and  every  now  and  then  rising  to  dramatic  scenes 
and  thrilling  moments.  It  is  told  in  the  first  person 
and  its  time  covers  some  fifteen  years  in  the  boyhood 
and  young  manhood  in  the  thirties  and  forties  of  the 
last  century,  of  the  narrator,  one  Barton  Baynes. 
Mr.  Bacheller  weaves  a  bit  of  curiosity-compelling 
mystery  about  this  character  in  his  foreword  and 
preface,  wherein  he  says  that  all  the  characters  ex 
cept  this  one  and  two  others  are  imaginary  and  that 
Barton  Baynes  ended  his  life  "full  of  honors  early 
in  the  present  century." 


THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

The  early  chapters,  telling  of  the  hero's  childhood 
in  the  home  of  the  celibate  uncle  and  aunt  who  bring 
him  up,  are  written  with  beautiful  realism  and  a  ten 
der  understanding  of  the  childish  mind  and  spirit. 
Early  in  the  tale  New  York's  famous  Senator  and 
Governor  of  those  days,  Silas  Wright,  comes  into 
the  boy's  life  and,  although  he  does  not  appear  very 
frequently  in  person  in  the  development  of  the  story, 
his  personality  stands  out  strongly  from  the  time 
the  lad  first  meets  him  until  the  end.  The  reader 
feels  Silas  Wright  throughout  the  story.  And  that, 
perhaps,  is  the  biggest  thing,  artistically,  that  Mr. 
Bacheller  has  achieved  in  the  book.  For  one  of 
the  most  difficult  things  the  novelist  ever  attempts  is 
to  take  a  character  of  eminence  out  of  real  life  and 
make  him  a  livable,  flexible  being  in  a  realistic  com 
pany.  And  Mr.  Bacheller  makes  Silas  Wright  not 
only  a  human,  convincing,  everyday  sort  of  person, 
but  also  an  interesting  and  lovable  one,  the  sort  of 
man  one  would  like  to  know,  quite  aside  from  his 
being  a  great  statesman  in  perilous  times.  In  the 
course  of  the  story  -Barton  Baynes,  for  whom  Silas 
Wright  has  been  from  childhood  like  a  pillar  of 
light,  comes  to  stand  in  a  close  relationship  with 
him,  goes  to  Washington  as  his  secretary  and  is 
present  at  the  Baltimore  Convention  which  wishes 
to  nominate  him  for  President.  But  these  expe 
riences,  near  the  end  of  the  book,  are  passed  over 
quickly.  There  is,  however,  a  very  pretty  bit  of 


THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  CLEARING 

writing  in  the  account  of  his  long  ride  to  keep  a  tryst 
with  the  girl  of  his  heart.  The  love  story,  which 
begins  early  in  the  tale  between  two  children  and 
runs  through  to  the  end,  with  many  a  snag  and  bar 
to  threaten  its  course,  is  a  charming  idyl.  But  it  is 
not  the  chief  element  of  interest.  It  is  only  one  of 
the  many  things  of  life  whose  impact  upon  the 
plastic  mind  of  the  boy  under  the  molding  influence 
of  "the  light  in  the  clearing'*  fashions  his  character 
and  fits  him  for  his  job  in  the  world.  In  so  treating 
it  Mr.  Bacheller  is  true  to  the  verities  of  life. 

There  is  a  great  variety  of  characters  in  the  story, 
men,  women,  and  children,  of  higher  and  lower  and 
medium  estate — including  a  glimpse  of  President 
Van  Buren — but  to  each  one  of  them  the  author  has 
given  a  touch  of  individuality  and  outstandingness. 
All  of  them,  even  those  that  are  most  thoroughly 
worked  out,  are  drawn  with  a  few  broad,  speaking 
lines.  The  shadowy  "Michael  Henry,"  who  is  such 
an  efficient  member  of  the  household  of  the  jovial 
Irish  school  teacher,  is  a  more  pleasing  aspirant  for 
fame  than  Sarah  Gamp's  Mrs.  Harris,  and  quite  as 
humorous. 

Mr.  Bacheller  has  written  a  good  story,  with  skill 
and  heart  and  fine  and  true  perception.  It  is  as 
wholesome  and  tonic  as  a  wind  from  out  of  its 
North  Woods,  and,  popular  as  have  been  his  former 
books,  it  deserves  a  wider  reading  than  any  of  them, 
because  it  is  a  bigger  and  a  better  book. 


OVERDUE. 


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